Warnings: NON-CON + DUB-CON, implied age gap, power imbalance, toxic/abusive relationship, mentions of organized crime, mentions of murder, brat!reader
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers
Summary: Carmine Falcone only has a few precious things in his life. You're one of them, and that's why he kisses every bruise he leaves behind.
⭑
Carmine Falcone was hardly the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. Even as happy as he claimed you made him, you could still count the number of times on both hands that you’d actually seen him smile—a real one. Not the slightest hint of change on his lips that told you he was in a good mood for the day, but an actual full on smile that lit up his whole face.
With that being said, you could tell he was unhappy before he even opened his mouth.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Both the question and his tone had you doubting yourself, looking down at the dress you’d put on his card before looking back up at him with a slight frown. The question was obviously rhetorical, and so your silence—along with wearing said dress—was answer enough, and you swallowed at the way he exhaled through his nose.
“Absolutely not,” he told you, making your heart sink. “You look like a piece of meat with a bow tied around it.”
You blinked at that, lips parting as he pointed at you.
“Go put on something with some fabric.”
“Luca’s girlfriend wore something just like this at the last party,” you defended, and Carmine was speaking again before you barely finished.
“Luca’s girlfriend is a whore,” he swiftly replied, not even looking at you now as he put on his suit jacket. “So, unless you’re trying to sell something tonight…”
The door was shut in your face before you could even process that, his harsh words lingering in the air as you turned around. His disgust at the dress had stumped you, you couldn’t lie, so excited to wear it tonight and so sure he’d love it. Garnering the complete opposite reaction from the older man had you pulling your lip between your teeth, angry tears kissing your eyes at his words.
Sometimes you really hated Carmine Falcone.
…and other times you swore he was the best thing to ever happen to you.
Your relationship was so far from perfect, and if your mother was alive, she would've had a heart attack all over again to see you involved with the likes of him. But you were in Gotham and the pickings were slim as is and catching the eye of Carmine Falcone was just as much of a blessing as it was a curse. Between the fighting and the fucking, no one knew that better than you.
“What is this? What’s going on?” Sofia wondered half an hour later after being sent to check on you. “Where’s your dress?”
“Your father said it made me look like a whore, so…” you shrugged at her, completely at ease as you sipped on a glass of champagne.
You heard her sigh as you took off your lashes, robe tight around you as you sat at the vanity. You heard her mumble something you didn’t catch—something profane no doubt—before she approached you, her heels loud against the floor.
“It’s a stressful night for him,” she told you, grabbing the same lash strip you’d just removed. “So what if he didn’t like the dress? You have plenty here.”
“No, I’m not going,” you told her, making her kiss her teeth. “The whole family’s down there, half of them think I’m some golddigger anyway, and he basically just called me one with less clothing.”
Sofia started to say your name when the door was harshly opened. Your gaze found the table interesting all of a sudden as familiar footfalls reached your ears. You could just barely make out Sofia gesturing to him in the mirror, the other woman swiftly leaving and you removed your other lash. A heavy silence filled the room from the moment the door was shut, and you pretended as if he wasn’t there.
Unsurprisingly, that was the wrong thing to do.
The gasp that you let out was loud and sharp as his hand found it’s way around your throat. He was pulling your head back so that it leaned against him, keeping it straight and forcing you to make eye contact with his reflection. As best as you could anyway now that he’d donned those familiar shades that always served to hide what he was thinking.
“What’s the matter with you? Huh?”
You knew he didn’t actually want an answer, and your lips trembled as he tightened his hold on your neck.
“The family’s flown in for this and you’re supposed to be on my arm, but instead you’re up here throwing a tantrum like some childish brat.”
He spat the words at you, harshly letting you go, and your gaze fell to your lap just as a few tears spilled over. You could hear him moving towards the closet, and you weren’t surprised at all when a dress landed on the vanity followed by another at your feet, making you flinch.
“There’s no shortage of dresses in here,” he said to you, moving towards the door. “Pick one. Ten minutes.”
Carmine didn’t need to elaborate, and ten minutes later—and not a second over—you were joining him with a smile, his hand taking yours as he introduced you to an unfamiliar face. Your smile didn’t budge once as he led you around the mansion, warmly greeting some of the same people who swore you wouldn’t still be around a year ago. Although, you supposed you were being a bit harsh considering even you didn’t think you’d still be around a year ago
That was through no fault of your own though, and you lightly rubbed your neck.
“Go to my office,” the dark-haired man quietly said to you halfway through the party.
You started to question it before thinking better of it, allowing him to press a gentle kiss to your cheek before letting you go. You could feel his eyes on you as you weaved through the sea of bodies, making your way to those familiar dark doors. You suspected that this conversation wasn’t going to be pretty, and you hated that you were already crying before he even joined you.
It was the first thing he commented on.
“Whats the matter with you?” he demanded in that gruff voice of his the moment he shut the door, quickly moving towards you.
“Nothing,” you choked out.
“Nothing? Don’t treat me like I’m stupid–what are you crying for?”
You pushed his hands away when he reached for your face, turning away, but he was fed up it seemed.
“Cut it out,” he evenly said, making you freeze. “Now.”
The office was quiet and the sounds of the party reached you through the thick doors. His hand was tight on your chin, making you face him, and you sniffed as he took a deep breath. His other hand came up to gently touch your cheek, and when he leaned in enough to graze his lips against yours, you closed your eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“You didn’t like my dress,” you eventually whispered, voice shaky. “...and…you basically called me some hooker.”
When Carmine pulled back enough to look at your face again, you couldn’t stop it from crumbling.
“I thought you’d love it,” you tearfully told him. “...and I was so excited to wear it and…”
Your words died in the air when he brought a single finger up to his lips, and you defeatedly leaned against the edge of his desk. A moment of silence passed between you, and you heard Alberto’s drunken laugh from another room. Carmine let your chin go, hand falling to land on your arm, his other thumb brushing along your lips.
“I didn’t hate the dress,” he confessed, and your brows drew together. “...but let’s save that dress for you and me.”
Understanding dawned on you, and you swallowed, face heating up.
“I can’t have you walking around in something like that…especially around the likes of Luca.”
He leaned in again, lips grazing your ear as he spoke.
“It’s a gorgeous dress, but it’s for my eyes only, understand?”
When you nodded, he pressed a kiss to your cheek, and when he pulled back again to look at you, he tsk’d.
“Look at you,” he gently complained, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re going to ruin your makeup.”
“Sorry,” you apologized, and his only response was to pull you into his side as you straightened.
As he guided you back to the party, you wondered if any of your fights would ever not end in a kiss or relaxing into his waiting arms or opening your legs for him as he had his way with you. When you were mad at Carmine, you were so mad, and every time you were convinced that this would be it, and you’d leave him for good.
…but it never turned out that way.
Even on those rare times you actually did leave him. The shady businessman always found a way to pull you back in and sweet talk his way back into your life and convince you that not being with him wasn’t what you wanted. He never showed up empty handed—a necklace, an anklet, earrings. He always came with something beautiful and expensive to soften your resolve, and every single time it worked.
The one and only time it didn’t was the first time you ever left him, a time when you weren’t even officially together funny enough.
It was all so new and exciting—and sometimes it still was—and you were drunk on the affections of Carmine Falcone…until you learned Carmine collected women like he collected business ventures. The new furniture and diamonds and shoes meant nothing to you when the thought of sharing him with anyone else absolutely disgusted you, and you knew he thought you were bluffing.
Until that same furniture and those same diamond necklaces and shoes were sent right to his doorstep.
The fight that eventually followed left bruises on your arms for weeks.
“Do you have any idea how that made me look?”
His voice had deepened with anger, and he’d leaned over you as some ploy to scare you, and you had only blinked at him.
“Give them to some other woman.” you’d replied. “You have no shortage of them.”
He hadn’t responded right away, but his silence spoke volumes.
“This little act is beneath you,” he said, and you’d laughed.
“You don’t know what’s beneath me,” you’d told him, turning away. “...and there’s no act. I don’t want to be one of the many.”
You could hear him slowly following you around your charming apartment.
“You think you’re special?” he’d deeply asked, and you’d sighed.
“I don’t care if I am or not,” you’d continued, collecting everything he bought you. “I don’t want this.”
When you looked at him, you were unable to tell what he was really thinking, those dark shades hiding his eyes from you.
“See as many women as you want, but I won’t be one of them.”
You’d foolishly thought that was the end of that and thus the end of you and Carmine, but you turned out to be sorely mistaken. Having you followed was one thing and even leaving disturbingly out of touch gifts inside of your apartment was another, but you only truly started to feel fear when the first guy you proceeded to date was found floating in the river somewhere. That should’ve been the moment where you moved to a different place altogether and changed your locks and maybe even bought a gun.
Instead, the next time you came face to face with Carmine ended in his hand around your throat and his cock inside of you.
You’d pressed the palm of your hand against your kitchen table to keep from falling back, Carmine’s other hand tight on your waist as he fucked you. The weak wood shook beneath your movements, and tears kissed your eyes from both the tight grip on your neck and the rough feel of him thrusting into you.You had barely looked through your peephole when Kenzie had forced your door open, your wide eyes taking in the sight of Carmine stepping through moments later.
There’d been a lot of yelling on your part, even more so when he got his hands on you. He was never a man of many words—at least not around you—and you’d only screamed and screamed when he manhandled you. The dark-haired man hadn’t cared though, only forcing you down against your table with a hand on your back.
“What are you doing, huh? Trying to get a rise out of me?”
Those were the first words he’d greeted you with as he tore at your clothes.
Of course he’d assumed you’d started seeing some other guy just to get a reaction from him. Of course the great Carmine Falcone hadn’t been able to fathom that you were over and you had every right to move on. Of course he could have a line of women on rotation but God forbid you go on one date with one guy.
“It’s not fair,” you’d whispered hours later, gently licking your bruised lip. “I’m allowed to not want to be with you anymore.”
He hadn’t responded, fixing his hair in your narrow mirror, but you knew he heard you loud and clear.
“You can’t break into my house and follow me around and hurt every guy I touch,” you’d continued, frowning at him and hating that he was ignoring you. “Carmine!”
“They’re gone,” was all he’d said.
He still wouldn’t look at you, and your frown had deepened, confused by his response. When the silence continued to stretch, he’d finally elaborated.
“The other girls…they’re gone.”
You hadn’t believed him, of course, just looking at him from your place on your bed with the most skeptical gaze. It hurt your face to frown at him, but you wouldn’t stop doing it, and you blinked a few times when he finally looked at you again.
“I’m not going to repeat myself,” he’d said to you. “...but if I see you with some other man again, you’re going in that river with him.”
There’d been no mirth in his tone and not a hint of humor in his gaze, making you swallow, and your fearful eyes never left him once as he approached you. You’d watched him reach for you, hand gently resting on the back of your neck as he leaned over to press a light kiss to the top of your head. Carmine lingered for a moment, he breathed you in, and then he was gone.
He’d shown up on your doorstep a few days later like nothing happened, and you supposed in his mind, nothing did happen.
You picked up right where you left off only this time, there were no other women, and you weren’t even glancing at other men. Carmine was as gentle with you as he was the first time you met, sliding a diamond choker around your neck, his fingers softly brushing over your skin as he clasped the ends together. You’d felt like you were selling your soul as you reached up to touch the expensive piece of jewelry.
“Why do you always have to pout? Hmm?” he wondered hours after the party, gently kissing your discolored throat as he hovered over you. “Speak up.”
You let out a shaky breath beneath him, toes curling as he slowly pushed into you, stretching you with his cock and apologizing in his own way for his earlier behavior.
“You made me mad,” you murmured, lashes fluttering. “You know half of your family thinks I’m after a spot in the will.”
“The spot’s yours, baby,” he mumbled against your skin.
You weren’t able to tell him for the umpteenth time that you didn’t care about a stupid will, too distracted by the feeling of his cock dipping into you. You mewled beneath him as you threw your head back, baring your neck to him for more than just his lips. Carmine loved to choke you, he got an unshakable thrill from it, and you loved to let him, surrendering yourself to him every time.
You swore that you never came as hard as you did in your life than when he’d had his hands snug around your throat the first time he fucked you.
He once confessed to you that was the reason for the other women in the beginning—the violence. They were faceless girls from the club and from rough corners of the city. Most of them had the pleasure of getting paid for their time and efforts, some accepting his attention for the fun of it all. You had swallowed when he told you, hesitantly lifting your gaze to meet his.
“You can’t do those things with me?” you’d quietly asked him.
You swore that something passed through his eyes that both excited and terrified you, swiping your tongue between your lips as he leaned in closer. Silence had followed your question as you slowly and hesitantly grabbed his hand, keeping your eyes on his as you brought it up to your neck, pushing your hips against his as you silently encouraged him to do what he so clearly wanted.
Carmine was equal parts loving and violent, kissing every bruise and gently rubbing away every ache. The piles and piles of jewelry represented every apology, the larger the carat, the larger the bruise you’d long forgotten about. They always served to remind you that your moments of unhappiness were far outnumbered by the absolute bliss that being with him gave you.
Even when members of his family didn’t approve and suspected that you would’ve been long gone by now. It rarely bothered you as much these days, especially since Sofia was really the only approval you desperately wanted, and she’d long accepted that Carmine was crazy about you in his own way.
The same could not be said for Alberto, but one conversation with his sister had you long abandoning any desire for his approval.
“He’s just bitter,” Sofia finally admitted one night, waving her hand about as she sipped on some champagne.
You frowned at her, head tilted just a tad as you failed to understand. She’d stared back at you for a minute before clearing her throat and looking around. It wasn’t until her next words that you realized she was looking around to make sure that Carmine wasn’t close by.
“Alberto…struggles seeing you with our father…”
Your frown deepened.
“Let’s just say that if you and dad ever split up—God forbid—don’t be too shocked if Alberto comes knocking on your door.”
The confession surprised you, making you raise your eyebrows, and it even—dare you say it—made you lose what little respect you had for the other young man. You didn’t know why, but somehow it disappointed you to know that his aversion to you wasn’t rooted in somewhat understandable or honorable reasons.
Instead it was because he couldn’t fuck you.
The thought that he and his father were a lot more alike than either of them wanted to admit almost made you chuckle. Carmine also didn’t have the best reaction when he was denied access to you, evident in how he’d fuck you after a particularly long night at work or the club. Hands so tight on you that it hurt and hips slamming into yours so harshly that it made you wince. You’d long stopped trying to get him to stop when he got like that, accepting that he didn’t care.
He only cared about losing himself in the feeling of you coming around him.
It was why any and every fight eventually ended the exact same way.
Carmine Falcone would not be denied.
Another visit to his club had sparked yet another argument. It was why you didn’t make it a habit to show your face at the 44 Below, but Carmine had never said that you couldn’t. Although, you both knew that some part of him wanted to forbid you from coming to the club, evident in the clench of his jaw every time some man even so much as glanced at you. You were positive that if he could—and he could—Carmine would lock you up in a tower to hide you away from the rest of the world, saving you for his eyes only.
The truth though was that the Falcone patriarch got some sick pleasure from parading you around. The part of him that wanted to hide you away from the world was constantly at war with the side of him that wanted to parade you around on his arm, a barely noticeable hint of a smug smirk on those lips of his every time you drew attention. He never needed to say it because you knew what he was thinking—she’s mine and you can’t have her. You would be lying if you said you didn’t get some twisted excitement out of it too.
Except, of course, when it forced that green monster to rear its ugly chauvinistic head.
“You picked the dress out, Carmine, do you remember?” you stomped up the stairs. “You were standing right there waving your shiny black card around when I put it on the counter.”
He was following you at his own pace, completely silent as you ranted about his behavior.
“What was the point of buying it if you were just going to lose your mind the moment I step outside wearing it?”
Again he didn’t answer, and you rolled your eyes, thankful that he couldn’t see.
You closed the door behind you the moment you stepped inside of the bedroom, uncaring as to how petty that was. It was times like this where you were so grateful you never let him talk you into completely moving in here, relieved that you could just grab your things and haul ass back to your apartment anytime you wanted.
You were already grabbing a few things you wanted to take with you when he finally walked through the door, watching you with that look on his face that often made you feel like a child. You pretended like he wasn’t there, face twisting as you thought about how he acted tonight, tears kissing your eyes as you recalled his words.
“You’re with me but you insist on dressing like one of these girls at the club.”
You weren’t in the mood to hear about yet another dress he only wanted you to wear around him. It was silly and unnecessary, and truthfully, he was only acting this way because Alberto stopped by. You didn’t know if Carmine never noticed the way he looked at you before or if tonight just seemed especially egregious in his eyes, but you weren’t about to sit here and let him take it out on you that his son wanted to fuck his girlfriend.
“I think you like it…”
That was what he finally said to you, his deep voice just loud enough to make out in the quiet room. You blinked at his words, and when you looked over your shoulder you noted that he’d shut the door. You watched him make his way to the bar and fix himself a drink, blinking again as his words really sank in.
“Excuse me?” you quietly wondered. “Like what…?”
Your tone should’ve been hint enough to stop whatever he was about to say, but unfortunately, Carmine had never been afraid of you a day in his life.
“The attention,” he waved his drink at you. “I think you like when they look at you and undress you with their eyes and think about the things they’d do to you if you were theirs…instead of mine.”
Your mouth fell open as you watched him take a swig of the brown liquid.
“...and you know how I know you like it?” he continued before you could speak. “...because it makes me angry.”
You pressed your lips together.
“...because it pisses me off, and you know it, and despite what you say…”
He set the glass down, and it wasn’t lost on you how loud it sounded.
“You like me when I’m angry. You must.”
You roughly exhaled, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Say his name, Carmine.”
He raised a dark brow at you, and you continued anyway despite knowing that this was a bad idea.
“Don’t say they…their…them,” you whispered. “When you really want to say he and his and him.”
You scoffed, moving to grab some more things you wanted to take back to your place.
“I don’t know if it just dawned on you or what,” you continued, grabbing your favorite setting spray. “...but yeah your son is attracted to your girlfriend, and he’s so pissy every time I’m around because he can’t have me.”
You went on at his silence.
“So, I’m sorry that you had to find that out in the low neon lighting of the 44 Below when he refused to take his eyes off of me, but do not take that out on me–.”
You barely got the words out when he had his hand around your arm, yanking you away from the vanity and making you drop whatever you’d grabbed. You tripped over your feet, but that didn’t stop you from shoving against his chest, huffing in frustration when he still managed to force you towards the bed.
“No,” you spat, resisting his movements. “You acted like a complete asshole tonight!”
You bounced against the bed, attempting to crawl back but Carmine was faster and stronger.
“...and you always do this,” you cried, pushing against his hand as they reached for your dress. “I’ll be so happy and I’ll feel so good and then you ruin it–Carmine, stop!”
He didn’t listen to a word you said.
Carmine was in one of his moods where he only cared about burying himself inside of you—to release his anger, to shut you up, to make you forget how angry you were. Sometimes it was a combination of all three. Although, tonight you got the impression that it wasn’t primarily about any of those things. Any doubts that you had were squashed when he was finally inside of you.
“You’re mine, beautiful,” he gruffly said to you, pinning you between him and the bed as he had his way with you.
The dress you loved so much was ripped beyond repair and haphazardly thrown across the bed and floor. You had an inkling that the once beautiful piece of fabric was forever linked to Alberto for him, and he would rather buy you a new one entirely. Parts of your body still stung from where his blunt nails had broken skin in his haste to get you naked, and you winced every time they brushed against the sheets.
“I know that,” you choked out, digging your nails into his back.
His skin harshly slapped against yours, and the plush bed shook from the force of his thrusts. One of his hands was gripping the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling so hard that it made tears spill over, and his breathing was harsh in your ear. Despite the pain of it all, it didn’t prevent you from dripping around him, and you acknowledged on some small level that maybe Carmine was right.
Maybe you did like it when he was angry.
You moaned his name as you held onto him, lashes fluttering and lips parted as he fucked you. An hour ago you were so angry with him and so determined to spend a few nights at your own place before he inevitably showed up with flowers and some shoes or a tennis bracelet that cost more than your whole apartment. Now, though, you were clinging to him and keeping your legs parted for him and fighting the urge to scream his name for the whole house to hear.
You felt like you were losing a little more of your sanity every time he sank into your walls, cock sliding between your folds. Your chest arched up into his, shuddering at the feeling of his weight pressing down on you. You came around him once, and you saw stars, but when you eventually came around him for a second time, Carmine finished inside of you and gripped your thigh so tightly that it made you cry out, but it only prolonged your flutters around his cock.
You hadn’t even realized that one of his hands had found it’s way to your throat until spots appeared in your vision, and when you came to, you were lying on his chest.
The silence between you was heavy, and you fought to catch your breath, gaze landing on your things that you’d dropped. Your breathing was choppy, and your body was so sore in places that only painkillers and a hot bath would fix, and still there was only one thing on your mind. One thing you prioritized above all of that.
“I don’t want Alberto.”
You knew he knew that, but you still felt the need to make it known.
He didn’t respond to your whispered words right away, instead giving the top of your head a gentle kiss.
“We’ll get you a new dress tomorrow,” he told you, making your heart flutter. “Anything you like, beautiful.”
Notes: this is about 2k words (haven’t actually counted) of purely self indulgent FILTH that I’ve been working on for a while. Enjoy!!
Warnings: MDNI, implied age gap, implied inexperienced reader, mirror sex, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, praise kink, implied size kink, voice kink, dry humping that isn’t very dry, squirting, implied d/s dynamics, reference to masochism.
“Myc?”
He did not bristle at the nickname- YN was the only person in the world permitted to shorten his name without receiving a lecture. It was her curious tone that made him raise a brow. But when he gave her his full focus, she looked quickly away. His lips curled into a slight smirk.
“Go on,” he said slowly. “Don’t tease me now, dear,”
“How do you…” his smirk grew wider, but he did not push. He had found that he rarely had to pry to get YN to reveal her thoughts… no matter how flustered it made her. She sighed, feeling heat rise to her face. “How do you… know how to please me?”
Mycroft gave a slight chuckle, setting down his tumbler of scotch. “Because if I give you something you like, you stutter out thanks and look down as though to hide your smile; you’re a terrible giggler when I employ my razor wit; and you-”
“I meant in bed,” she blurted out, looking down at the book in her lap. She wasn’t reading it. He could tell. “How do you always know how… to make me feel good,”
Mycroft’s smirk was almost wolfish. He surveyed her for a moment. “Come here,” he said, not unkindly, but he felt his pulse quicken when she jumped to obey, scurrying over. He patted his knee once, and hummed with appreciation as she settled herself across his broad thigh. “I know how to make you feel good, darling, because I know your body,”
YN frowned. “But… you’ve made me finish… by doing things I didn’t know I liked,” she murmured.
“I have, haven’t I?” He said thoughtfully, his large hand grazing over her thigh. She nodded, her body relaxing against his. “Sex,” he murmured “is a skill… giving pleasure can be mastered through observation, experimentation, and practice.” His low, rumbling voice filled her head, soaking over her like syrup. When she shuddered, he squeezed her thigh. “There, see?” He murmured, his lips ghosting the shell of her ear. “That minute shudder… that tells me that you like when I lower my voice like this,”
“Yeah,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut.
“Look at me, darling,” he said, and at once her eyes pinged open. He chuckled. “Would you like me to tell you everything I have observed?” She nodded. “Then go upstairs. Undress to your underwear. I will join you shortly.”
***
When he entered his bedroom, he let out an appreciative hum. “Very good, YN,” he said, suppressing a smirk as he saw her eyes widen. Praise always flustered her.
“What’s that?” She asked, cocking her head to the side. Mycroft had removed his suit jacket, and in his hands was a large rectangle; he had brought a freestanding mirror with a beautifully carved frame. “Oh,” she murmured as he propped it against the dresser facing his bed.
“Now,” Mycroft murmured, removing his cufflinks. He set the shiny little accessories in their box, before rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, revealing his freckled forearms. He settled himself on the edge of the bed, his feet planted firmly on the rug, his legs apart with a large enough gap to fit her between them. “Sit here, sweetheart, facing the mirror… good…”
YN sat where he directed, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious. He was fully dressed still, save for his jacket, yet she was clad only in simple black knickers and bra. She kept her legs pressed firmly together, perching on the edge of the bed, folding her arms across her tummy. “Ah, ah, ah,” Mycroft chastised lightly. “Sit right back, YN.” He coaxed her closer, and she shivered as gooseflesh rose on her thighs where the inseam of his smart trousers rubbed against the outsides of her legs. “Lower your arms, now, there’s a good girl…” he cupped her chin gently, turning her head to look directly in the mirror. “You must keep your eyes on yourself,” he instructed. “It is very important for this exercise that you focus on yourself; on your face, on your body. Can you do that for me? Very good.”
Already, her breathing was a little laboured; each exhale was a shaky puff of breath escaping her lips. He wanted to make her pant. That would come soon though, and he was certainly patient enough to wait. “Let’s begin,” he said. Slowly, with featherlight touches, he trailed his very fingertips up her arms. He first stroked the backs of her hands, then her wrists. Then he trailed a little higher… a little more, until he was stroking the full length of her arms, fingertip to shoulder, over and over. He was pleased when he felt her relax a little more against him, her back leaning against his chest. “Do you know what an erogenous zone is, YN?” He murmured, and she nodded uncertainly. “Tell me,”
“It’s… they’re parts of your body that are sensitive… more sensitive- you get aroused when they’re stimulated, like the clit,” she breathed. She was already tumbling over her words from his low voice and light touches alone.
“Excellent,” he affirmed, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her head. “You provided an excellent example, too. But there are multiple places on your body that have this effect, not just between your legs. Some are rather inconspicuous… your wrists for example…” he felt her pulse flutter beneath his fingertips as he caressed her wrists. “Your neck and ears… especially here,” he said that while pressing his lips to the spot just below and behind her ear and as expected, she melted just that little bit more. “Your breasts and nipples…” his knuckles grazed the edge of her bra, just where it lay against the swell of her breast. “You’re particularly sensitive here,” he murmured, watching her expression as he stroked her hips. “And of course, the genitals are perhaps the most sensitive, would you agree?” She nodded once more, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. She was breathing a little heavier now. “Words,” he prompted.
“Y-yes, Mycroft,” she whispered.
“Good. Now, I have found that foreplay serves to enhance the feeling of release if done correctly. Although you beg very prettily, your most intense orgasms have occurred after at least some foreplay, yes?” She nodded. “And engaging in foreplay has provided ample opportunity to discover the things your body responds well to. Sit forward,” She leant ever so slightly forward, and he unclasped her bra, discarding it beside his feet. “A work of art,” he murmured appreciatively, and he was sure his pupils had dilated further. “Look at yourself, YN. Look how pretty your breasts are. See how they fit perfectly in my hands?”
She shivered as his large hands cupped her breasts, his touch firm, his long fingers sinking into the softness of her flesh. “I have observed that you have rather sensitive nipples,” he murmured, smirking as he saw her gaze transfixed on the reflection of his hands. He brushed his thumbs over her stiffening nipples, circling their circumference. His touch was barely there, but she let out a shaky gasp all the same. He let her relax back against him for a moment or two as he stroked her nipples, before pinching them sharply. At that, she whimpered, the sound dissolving into a moan as she pressed her thighs tight together. “Very sensitive,” he murmured into her ear, nipping at the shell. “You’re pushing into my hands, darling. Craving more?”
“More,” she confirmed, looking over her shoulder to him. “Need more- that felt good,”
He nodded, directing her gaze back to her reflection. She was panting now, her breasts heaving into his palms. He rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger, occasionally squeezing just that bit tighter. “I know it felt good,” he told her. “You’re panting. You’re pushing into my touch for more. You’re rubbing your thighs together, desperate for some sort of friction,” he applied a slight twisting motion to her nipple, smirking at her. “And your reaction to that tells me that perhaps you’re a deviant little minx… perhaps you’d like a little more pain muddled into your pleasure…” her eyes widened and she squirmed a little at the prospect. “Another time, dear, we will explore that…” he promised.
Her eyes were starting to go glassy with pleasure, and she was squirming more and more at his ministrations. “Get rid of these,” he instructed, plucking at her underwear. She lifted her hips somewhat, shuffling the fabric down her thighs, kicking them off her ankles. Mycroft sat a little further back, propping himself up on the pillows. “Lay between my legs, that’s right,” he murmured pressing her back to his chest. This time, however, he guided her legs to hook either side of his, so that she was spread out in front of the mirror, unable to close her legs. She gulped, trying to keep her eyes focused on her reflection as he had instructed, fighting the urge to cover her most intimate parts. “Beautiful,” he reassured. “Such a perfect cunt you have, YN,”
She whined, the sound pathetic, her head tipping back against his shoulder, eyes screwing shut. “YN,” Mycroft said lowly. “Remember my instructions,” She gulped and nodded, murmuring a quick apology before looking at herself in the mirror. She felt the vibration of his chest as he hummed in approval. His hands spread across the expanse of her hips, teasingly close to the space between her pubic mound and upper thigh. “Down here is a treasure trove of erogenous zones,” he informed her. “Your hips, as I mentioned. Your inner thighs…”
“I-I liked when you bit them that time,” she murmured. It had been the first time she had orgasmed from cunnilingus, and before he delved into her cunt, he had kissed and nibbled at her inner thighs. “I thought it would hurt, but it felt good,” she admitted.
“Hmmm,” Mycroft agreed. “I made a note of that,” he informed her. “You made the prettiest sound when I bit them,”
Using his middle fingers on each hand, he stroked either side of her vulva, spreading her open on each upward movement. “Now, this entire area is sensitive, yes?” She nodded quickly, biting her lip. “I want to pay attention here,” he said lowly. With his left hand, he held her labia apart. “Your clitoris, which you identified earlier as a particularly erogenous zone,” he tapped the pad of his right forefinger once against the exposed head of her clit. She whimpered, bucking her hips up. “Ten thousand nerves, all dedicated to your pleasure… do you masturbate, YN?”
Her cheeks heated at the question, but she nodded slowly. “Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Show me how you like to pleasure yourself,” he instructed. Her eyes widened. Exhaling shakily, she leant a little further back on his chest, sliding her hand down her body, using two fingers to rub at her clit. Instantly, her eyes fluttered shut and she moaned lowly, finally feeling some friction where her body was screaming for it the most. Mycroft’s eyes darkened, and he almost groaned at the sight. He allowed her a few moments of pleasure before wrapping his hand around her wrist, tugging it away. Though she let him move her hand, she still let out a dejected whine. “Interesting,” he commented. “I notice that you rub to the left of the clitoris, and over the clitoral hood,”
She bit her lip. “It’s… it’s the way I’ve always done it… it works for me,”
Mycroft smiled, and guided her hand up. He took the two fingers that had touched her clit in his mouth, sucking the slight wetness from them briefly. “If it brings you pleasure, then that is good,” he assured her. “However… I have noticed your body responds rather nicely to a more… direct approach. Watch,” he pointed at the mirror. Once more, he spread her pussy lips apart. Slowly, carefully, he dipped the pad of his middle finger lower, collecting some of the building wetness. Slowly, torturously slowly, he smeared the wetness directly on the head of her clit, before beginning to stroke slow, tight circled on the sensitive bud. She practically jumped off the bed, her back arching and her hips squirming, but she could not wriggle away from his touch. Perfect. Moaning and cursing, her eyes squeezed shut, but he leant down and growled in her ear. “Be a good girl and watch me pleasure you,” he commanded. He slid his hand down, relieving her clit for just a moment, before plunging two of his long fingers into her cunt, crooking them just so, the heel of his hand pressing tightly to her clit.
“Fuck, Mycroft!” She cried out, bucking her hips. He barely had to move his hand- she was practically riding it, sitting almost bolt upright, and watching with darkened eyes in the mirror, just as instructed.
“There’s a good girl,” he growled, sitting up with her, wrapping his free arm around her and pressing his hand into her lower tummy, enhancing the sensation of his fingers tenfold. “You’re approaching orgasm,” he informed her. “I can feel it in the way your cunt flutters. In the way your clit spasms against my palm. You’re going to soak my hand, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yes!” She cried out, rolling her hips desperately, rolling her own nipples between her fingers and thumbs, just as he had done before. When she came, she called out his name in a broken cry, her head lolling back against his shoulder as her release coated his fingers and palm.
Shaking, whimpering, she fell back against his chest, and soon she pushed weakly at his hand. He chuckled darkly, rubbing her through a few more aftershocks before he let up. He offered her his soaked palm, biting back a growl as she licked and slurped at her own release, cleaning off his hand. “Very good,” he told her, turning her head to press his lips to hers. She whimpered into his mouth, unhooking her legs from over his and turning over onto her belly. He helped her up his body until she was straddling him, her soaked cunt humping against the straining fly of his expensive suit trousers. “YN,” he groaned, tugging her head back by her hair. Her name rolled beautifully off his tongue, and she moaned at the low sound of his voice, her fingers scrabbling at the buttons of his waistcoat, tutting impatiently. That made him smile. He closed his hands around her wrists, his thumbs stroking soothingly over her pulse points. “Patience is a virtue, dear,” he chastised lightly, and he shifted her off him, leaving her trembling on the bed.
He stood, untying his tie, the silk rasping against his pale hands. His pocket watch was set on the nightstand- that he didn’t put it away properly was indication of his own urgency despite his composure. His waistcoat was discarded on the growing pile of clothes on the floor, his sleeve garters placed next to his watch. He shrugged off his braces, his eyes never leaving hers, before unbuttoning his shirt. Somehow, Mycroft Holmes was able to look dignified shirtless with his braces hanging at his sides, with a stain of slick on his crotch. YN gulped, her fingers drifting between her legs. She was stroking herself the way he had done before, her hips rocking up to the stimulation. Mycroft hummed appreciatively. “You learn quickly, darling,” he said, undoing his fly. When he was completely nude, he knelt between her thighs, his thick cock jutting out proudly.
She was slick enough for him to slip between her lips, the head of his cock brushing precisely against her clit before he pushed into her. His lips curled into a pleasured snarl as he gritted his teeth. “Perfect,” he gritted out, his hands splaying over her thighs as he pulled her tighter to him, sheathing himself fully to the hilt. She squealed at the delicious intrusion, wrapping her legs around his hips, her heels pressing into his lower back. He laid his body over hers, her breasts pressed against his chest, his pale chest hair scratching against her peaked nipples. “Move,” she begged, her voice pitched just that little bit higher. “Please,” she breathed. Who was he to deny her when she asked so very politely?
Though his movements were not fast and frenzied, they were no less intense, his eyes scanning over her face rapidly as he gauged her reaction to each firm, deep thrust. He smirked with satisfaction when he angled her hips just a little higher, and in return received a gasp, her eyes flying open. She was losing herself, and even the most ignorant fool could see it. Her thighs were clamped around his waist, her nails leaving little crescent shaped grooves at his shoulder blades. Her forehead was damp with sweat, and her lips were parted and swollen from his kisses, the most disgraceful curses falling from them. “Look at me,” he growled, one hand cupping the back of her head, his fingers pressing into her scalp, tangling in the hair there. “I want to watch you lose control. You’re going to, aren’t you sweetheart? You’re going to come all over my cock, like the good girl I know you are. I can tell. I can tell by your breathing, by that doe-eyed little expression, by the way your cunt is squeezing me… that’s my perfect girl- that’s it- good!” 
She cried out as her orgasm crashed over her, her eyes rolling back, head thrashing from side to side as wetness bloomed at the juncture of their bodies. She was practically sobbing his name. He finally allowed himself his own release, pressing himself impossibly deeper as he filled her, letting out his own unrestrained shout of pleasure.
Breathless, his own cheeks flushed pink, he rolled them so that she was lying on his chest, still full to bursting of his cock and cum. She shuddered and whimpered, the movement stimulating her further, but he shushed her, wrapping his arms around her body and rubbing soothing circles on her back. “You did perfectly, sweetheart,” he murmured into her hair, smiling when she snuggled closer. He could feel himself softening and slipping out of her. “Perfect,” he repeated.
“Felt good,” she whispered. “So good,” she nuzzled closer to him, her lips grazing over his heart.
“Excellent,” he said with a soft smile. “And have you discovered what makes you feel good?” She nodded against his chest and his smile grew. He tilted her face up to face him, kissing her gently. “Marvellous,” he murmured against her lips.
Follow @fandom-puff-library and turn on post notifications.
Content/Warnings: smut (minors DNI), p in v sex, arranged/political marriage, catelyn dies au, some reference to grief and death, age gap of about 10 years
GIF creds to owner
The time for grief had come and gone; Catelyn would always hold a place in his heart, but Eddard knew he must take a new bride. The children needed a maternal figure, and he could not juggle his duties as Warden of the North with the everyday running of Winterfell for much longer.
YN was the eldest daughter of a northern house, and had been wed to some second son for a year or so, until a harsh winter took her husband. Widowed and childless, her position was precarious, until her father and her maester came to her with a crumpled scroll of parchment between them.
Dozens of eligible women had been suggested and presented to Eddard when he confided to Maester Lewin that he was ready to remarry. The Mormonts of Bear Island boasted several she-bears of marriageable age; his loyal bannerman Howland Reed had a daughter; even old Walder Frey suggested half a dozen of his own daughters.
None would suit. The Mormonts were better suited to battle; the Reed girl was a maiden flowered, but she was young enough to be Eddard’s daughter; Frey’s daughters posed the same worry, and he was loathe to allow the Freys an easy way into the northern succession.
When Maester Lewin suggested House YLN’s girl, Eddard stared long and hard at the tiny miniature portrait her father had submitted. Though she looked youthful, the artist had captured a certain seriousness in her face.
After a brief courting period, Eddard and YN were wed beneath the weirwood heart tree of Winterfell. The wedding festivities were modest, though a southron singer was given lodgings in exchange for his music at the feast. The bedding ceremony was subdued- no one in attendance had ever escorted a widowed bride and groom to their marriage chamber before.
When the well-wishers had dispersed and YN and Eddard were left alone, they offered one another a small smile. “I hope that wasn’t too rowdy for you, My Lady,” he said gently.
YN smiled softly. “It was certainly quieter than my first bedding ceremony,” she said lightly. When she saw the look on his face, she continued. “Please don’t think speaking about Arrek will upset me, My Lord,” she said. “He was my husband, yes, but we hardly knew each other. He preferred to hunt, or engage in swordplay. I suppose he didn’t see much need for me, seeing as his older brother already had several sons,”
Eddard nodded. “In that case, please don’t think speaking about Cat will upset me. It did, once… but…”
“But the memories feel happier now?” YN murmured, reaching a hand tentatively towards him, resting gently against his arm. When he nodded, his grey eyes meeting hers, she offered him a gentle smile. “They turn sweet and make you smile, rather than souring and making your heart ache, don’t they? It was like that with my mother,”
Eddard nodded once more, his hand coming to cup her jaw gently, his thumb tracing over her cheek. In that moment, he knew he had chosen right all those months ago. His eyes flicked to the bed, where the furs had been drawn back for them. YN smiled up at him. “I am not a maid,” she murmured.
“You are not,” he agreed. “I think I prefer it that way,” he said gently.
She nodded, understanding. “We must still consummate this marriage,” she said, subconsciously leaning into his touch.
“We must,” he said, agreeing once more with her.
Slowly, she reached up, ghosting her lips over his. The featherlight touch seemed to crack through the ice of her new husband’s restraint, and he cradled the back of her head, pulling her body flush against his. She sighed softly as she felt the scratch of his beard against her face, her own hands coming up to cup his face. As they kissed, her hands trailed slowly down his chest. She could still sense his self-restraint, practically bubbling beneath the surface, and so she began to unlace his thick doublet, feeling the warm grey velvet beneath her fingers. Once his outer layers fell to the floor, leaving him in his tunic and trousers, YN took his hands and moved them to the lacing of her gown. “I am not a blushing virgin, my lord,” she murmured. “So you may bed me as a man ought to bed a woman,”
Her words seemed to spur him on. Slowly, reverently, he stripped her down to her smallclothes, his hands trailing over her bare arms, his fingers ghosting over the peaks of her nipples through her shift. She shuddered under his touch, feeling heat and wetness pool between her thighs in a way she hadn’t felt- not even in her first husband’s bed.
When her hair was freed from its braids and her shift forgotten on the ground, Eddard stared at his wife, his lips quirking ever so slightly. He took in the lines of her figure, the dips and curves of her hips and tummy. He imagined her belly growing round with his babe, and his nostrils flared. He kissed her once more, slowly lowering her to the bed, watching as her hair splayed over the pillows, as the candlelight danced over her features. She shivered when he ran his hands down her sides, and let out a soft moan when he dipped his fingers between her legs. Her wetness pleased him, and he stroked her there until she was rocking against his hand, her brow furrowed in pleasure.
Flushed, he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking her wetness from his fingers. “Soon,” he said, his soft voice gravelly with desire. “Soon I am going to taste you properly,”
YN’s eyes widened- she had heard of that sort of thing from kitchen maids who didn’t know their voices carried, but she didn’t think it was something high lords did to their ladies. She was about to beg him to do it now, but he pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of her lips. “Soon, sweetling,” he promised. “Soon,”
She nodded quickly. Gazing up at him, she parted her thighs a little wider. “Please,” she whispered.
He smiled, kissing her forehead gently, before pushing her legs apart a little more with one hand, settling on his knees between them. Slowly, he guided his cock into her, hissing a curse as her tightness enveloped him. She let out a low moan as she was stretched out for the first time in over a year, her legs coming up to wrap around his waist. With her ankles locked around his back, she was able to tug him closer, crying out when he filled her to the hilt.
Groaning, he settled into a slow, deep rhythm, falling forward. His arms came to wrap around her frame as he rocked into her, each stroke drawing a pretty gasp or whimper or moan from her parted lips. Her own hands scrabbled for leverage, grasping his shoulder blades and his arms as she pushed her body up to him. Their bodies writhed together, her held tightly to him, and she soon felt herself climbing towards release. When he felt the fluttering of her cunt, his thrusts faltered slightly, before he began to move faster, harder, spurred on by the sounds he was plucking from her.
As her release washed over her, he allowed himself to chase his own end, his hips stuttering as he spilled his seed. Panting, he pressed a kiss to her forehead as he slowly pulled out. Instantly, she leant into his touch as he settled down beside her. Wrapping his arms around her, he gathered her close to his chest, kissing the top of her head. “Are you alright?” He murmured after a moment. “I have not hurt you?”
“No,” she murmured, her fingertips swirling through his chest hair. “You haven’t hurt me… you’d never hurt me,”
Content/Warnings: oral sex (bj), reference to arranged marriage, reference to prostitution
GIF creds to owner
“How does one stop their husband from straying into the bed of another?”
The handmaid brushing out YN’s hair faltered for a moment, before resuming the rhythmic action. YN looked expectantly at her through the looking glass; Jeyne had been loyal to her since she first flowered, and had been a confidant during the early months of her marriage to the lion of Casterly Rock.
“Has the man already strayed, milady?” She asked thoughtfully, using her fingers to untangle a knot. She daren’t name Lord Lannister herself.
“No,” YN admitted, “but I fear… his lordship visits the capital often… and is away for a month or so each time…” she looked down to her lap, fiddling with the hem of her nightgown. “The women there…”
“The whores, you mean?” Jeyne prompted, setting down the hairbrush.
YN nodded. “I overheard some of the guards boasting of their… conquests. With the courtesans,” she said, her face heating.
Jeyne gave a laugh. “Courtesans or whores, they spread their legs for coin all the same my lady. And forgive me for my callousness, but his lordship has a lot of coin,”
YN sighed, dabbing her wrists and chest with rosewater. “I know,” she murmured. “It’s just… his lordship only calls on me once or twice a month, and yet seems disappointed every time my moonblood comes,”
Jeyne tutted, beginning to plait her mistress’s hair. “That’s all high lords care for, my lady,” she said. “Putting a babe in their wife’s belly. There would be far less fretting about heirs and spares if those husbands pulled their weight while making those heirs,” she tied up the end of the braid. “May I speak frankly, my lady?” She asked.
“Oh, please,” YN said, turning to face her maid.
“Well,” said Jeyne, her lips twitching into a wicked grin. “If you want to stop his lordship from falling into a whore’s bed, you must keep him in your bed with whore’s tricks…”
*
When Tywin Lannister next returned from the capital, he had not expected his wife to be waiting in his solar. The last time he had returned from travel, she had greeted him in the entrance hall, bobbed into an obedient curtsey, and scurried off to the sept or the library or wherever it was she entertained herself during the day.
“My lady,” he said, his eyebrows raised minutely. “I did not expect to see you here,”
“I was delivering a report from the granaries, my lord. I copied them out in my own hand- I found the original hand to be rather cramped,” she said, placing her hand gently on the document. “I also brought up wine and mutton; the hour is late, but I had them set some supper aside for you. The evenings grow cold,”
Tywin fixed her with an unreadable gaze, and he found himself to be pleased that she did not avert her eyes. When he first took her to bride, she hardly ever met his eyes. “That was… thoughtful of you. Take supper into my bedchamber, and pour a cup of wine for yourself,”
She nodded, her lips quirking into a smile as she did as he bade. He watched after her curiously for a moment, glancing briefly at the document on his desk. She was right; her hand was far clearer than the steward’s.
When supper was cleared away and YN had run over the things he had missed while away, he set his wine cup down, and gazed once more at her. “Are you well, wife?” He asked.
YN nodded. “I am quite well, my lord,” she said. “I am pleased you have returned. I grew lonely in your absence,”
Tywin smirked slightly. “You grew lonely? You are hardly ever without your companions,” he said.
YN looked down demurely. “My companions are not my husband,” she murmured, looking at her lap. “It was a certain sort of loneliness I felt,”
Tywin felt his blood run hot. There was his wife admitting that she missed him carnally, all while looking down as though she were praying in the sept. It was out of the ordinary for YN… yet he felt a rush of exhilaration. While he strongly desired an heir, he could not deny the base needs he felt, especially after a month of travel, and her practically offering herself up to him certainly piqued his interest.
“Come here, my lady,” he said, beckoning her over to him. She stood before him, and he fingered the edge of her bodice thoughtfully. “I will alleviate that loneliness for you, wife,” he said lowly.
She felt his hands trailing towards the ties of her gown, loosening the garment. As it fell to the ground, he made to lift her shift over her head before she grasped his wrist. “Wait,” she said breathlessly, almost dizzy with excitement. Under his curious gaze she sunk to her knees.
For a moment he thought she was curtseying to him, and was about to question her, before she looked up at him through her lashes, her hands folded in her lap. “What are you doing?” He asked, and his voice was a little hoarse.
“Pleasuring you, my lord,” she said softly, her eyes slightly wide. “At least, I hope to,”
Tywin’s nostrils flared, his jaw twitching before he gave her questioning gaze a nod. This was certainly out of the ordinary. Slowly, her touch featherlight, she unlaced his trousers, while he shrugged off his doublet. She hummed softly when she found him half-hard, pleased she had stirred some interest in his loins.
He watched with fire in his eyes as she felt the weight of his cock in her hand, and he did not miss the slight flutter of her eyelashes as she inhaled the scent of him. Tentatively, she began to stroke him to full hardness, her hands gentle against the velvety flesh. He hissed when her thumb brushed over the tip, smearing the droplet of liquid over him.
When he was fully erect, she sat back on her heels, gazing at his cock. She knew his size well; though his nighttime visits were infrequent, the way he filled her made her breathless each time, and left a tender, pleasurable ache in her the following day. But that was her cunt, and this was her mouth, and for a moment she thought Jeyne must have been jesting when she told her of this particular ‘whore’s trick’.
“Go slowly,” Tywin said through gritted teeth. She nodded quickly, and pressed a tentative kiss to the tip of his cock. He let out a sharp breath, his jaw set tight as he watched her kiss up and down his shaft. When her tongue flickered out to trace a vein, he bit back a groan, his fists clenching. Watching his sweet wife revere his cock with her gentle kisses was the most delicious form of torture; he wanted more from her, wanted to feel the constriction of her throat around him, but he did not want to let his control slip.
Carefully, she began to feed his length into her mouth, her pretty lips stretching around him. He felt her tongue giving him whisper-soft licks, his knuckles turning while as he gripped the arm of his chair. As she swallowed more of him, he allowed himself a low groan. When he hit the back of her throat, she moaned low in her throat, her eyes widening. Slowly, she got used to the intrusion of her throat, and began to bob her head slowly, flattening her tongue against the underside of his cock. When she hollowed her cheeks, he gritted out another moan, one hand tangling in her hair, nails scraping against her scalp.
As she grew in confidence, he began to guide her head in a rhythm that he liked, his hips bucking up from the chair, chasing the pleasure brought on by her mouth. Her soft gags and moans, as well as the lewd, wet noises from her ministrations only heightened his pleasure. His nails scraped against her scalp, and when he looked down to see her wide eyes and her hollowed cheeks, and the single tear trailing down her cheek, he almost spent there and then.
Tightening his grasp on her hair, he pulled her off. She gasped, and moaned lowly at the sight of his flushed, twitching cock. It glistened in the candlelight, and a string of saliva kept them connected. She was about to ask if she had done something wrong, when he said lowly, “get on the bed,”
“My lord?” She asked, getting slowly to her feet.
“Get on the bed,” he repeated, his voice gravelly. “I will not repeat myself. I will not waste my seed pouring it down your throat. Get on the bed.”
Requested by: @just-some-random-blogger -I changed the request a little bit hopefully it still fits!!! I hope you enjoy <33 thank you for requesting another Tywin Fic!
Warnings: implied arranged marriage, implied age gap, violence, one death, threat, mention of blood, brief reference to sexual assault.
GIF creds to owner
The journey from Lannisport to Casterly Rock was not a long one, only a mile or so, and took less than an hour on horse.
“It is good for you to come on these visits,” Tywin said, drawing his wife’s eye away from the coastline. “The more you understand of the workings of the Westerlands, the better suited you will be to oversee it in my absence. I will leave plenty of my own men in my stead, of course, but they will not enact anything without your leave,”
YN nodded. It was a great responsibility, being the Lady of Casterly Rock. As an eldest daughter, she understood the duties of the lady of a keep, but her house was merely a vassal of the Lannisters, and the village that her home castle oversaw housed barely a hundred. “Yes, my lord,” she said obediently. “Ser Kevan has already been so helpful in your-“
“My brother will not always be here,” Tywin said firmly. “You will almost always have my maester to advise you, but the decisions must come from you, yes?”
She lowered her head to the reins in her hands, her face heating almost in shame. It was hard not to feel incompetent in her husband’s presence.
Tywin let out a sigh. “I know it is far more than you are used to,” he said, and he sounded almost kind. “We have only been married a few short months, and you have done rather well already from what I have heard,” His voice was matter-of-fact, and YN had quickly learned that her husband spoke only facts. She allowed herself a small smile at his praise, lifting her head once more. “I notice you spend time daily in the Sept,” he went on. “I’ve no love for the gods myself, and rarely have time for devotions- perhaps you could make use of the city’s sept as well as the one in-”
He stopped abruptly, tugging at his reins to still his horse. “Remain ahorse,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Flee only if I tell you, but you must remain ahorse,”
YN nodded quickly, patting her own horse’s neck to soothe the beast. She looked over her shoulder. Their small gaggle of red cloaks seemed a lifetime away; they had broken away from the group so they could have their conversation carried away by the rush of the waves, for Tywin would not give his guards fodder for gossip.
Tywin’s eyes were darting around the expanse of the coast, and for an instant, YN thought he must be seeing monsters in the shadows cast by the cliffs.
“That’s a fine horse you got there, lady,” the rough voice came from their side, and YN’s horse began to fret once more. “Fine jewels too… might be we takes them both,”
“You will do no such thing,” Lord Tywin’s steely voice sounded as he reared his horse between YN and the gaggle of brigands that were emerging from the crags in the cliffs. “You’re a long ways from the Neck,” he said, nodding to the faded towers blazoned on their leader’s dirty surcoat. “Has Lord Frey sent you this way?”
The brigands spat at the mention of their liege Lord’s name. Tywin’s eyebrows merely quirked before his expression returned to neutrality. The rest of the brigands had emerged from their hiding places in the cliffs and had formed a circle around the pair. YN’s horse began to snort, tossing her head around in distress. “The lady has a fine dress too,” said another of the brigands, grasping onto the fabric of YN’s skirts with his filthy hands. She sat stock still- she was sat side-saddle on her horse, and even one of the brigands could pull her off if he had a mind to. Up close, she saw the man had several broken teeth, and an evil glint in his eyes- and (like his comrades) he carried a blade. She looked quickly at Tywin for guidance, for him to tell her to flee, but he shook his head minutely.
“You will unhand my lady wife,” he said, which elicited some laughs and hoots from the gang.
“Will I now?” Said the man with the broken teeth. “I don’t think I will. I think I’ll take her home and make her my wife,”
Tywin’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “You will unhand my lady wife,” he repeated. “It will make the difference between arriving to the dungeons of Casterly Rock whole or in pieces,”
The man’s snarling smile dropped, and his grasp on YN’s skirts loosened. “Good,” Tywin said. “Now drop your weapons,”
The leader of the brigands, the first man who had spat at the name of Walder Frey, drew his sword fully from its sheath. “And I suppose you’re going to want us to bow and lick your feet too, old man?” He said with a snort. But for all his fighting talk, his companions seemed more and more unsure; and when Tywin’s own sword was unsheathed, a few began to retreat.
By now YN’s horse was fully in distress, tossing her head and stomping about on the spot, unused to the sounds of steel on steel. The man with the broken teeth grabbed at her once more, seizing his opportunity to tug her from her mount. YN’s cry was drowned out by the gargling scream of the man, however, and she felt the warm splatter of his blood against her chest.
The skirmish was over before it started- the redcloaks had joined the fray, until cries of “I yield!” filled the air. The redcloaks looked to Tywin, who nodded.
“What should we do with ‘em, Lord Lannister?”
The leader’s face paled, and he looked up at Tywin, properly looking at who it was he had ambushed.
Tywin regarded the brigands. “The dungeons will do.” he said, glancing at YN, who was shaking on the floor by the body of the man who had tugged her from the saddle. “As for that… send his head and hands to Lord Walder Frey. Get these brigands out of my sight,”
The redcloaks began to strip the scraps of armour and weapons from the criminals, before hurrying them along the coast. “Mercy, m’lord of Lannister!” a few of them called, but his focus was elsewhere.
He approached his wife slowly, kneeling down by her side. “Are you hurt, my lady?” He said quietly. She shook her head, though her eyes were wide and she trembled beneath his gaze.
“My horse,” she mumbled.
“We will find her,” he said- YN’s horse had bolted as soon as she was unseated. “Come,” he said, slowly guiding her to stand. He helped her to his own horse, and helped her into the saddle, before hoisting himself up behind her. Instinctively, she leaned back into the solid heat of his chest, breathing in his scent as he reached around her to grasp the reins. The final stretch of their short journey seemingly passed in seconds, and Tywin was soon helping her back down, passing the reins to his master of horse.
“Have a bath drawn in my chambers,” he commanded. “And bring Lady Lannister fresh garb,”
With a hand on the small of her back, he guided her through the halls of Casterly rock to his own chambers, and despite the drying blood speckled on her gown, she kept her head high, a euphoric rush flowing through her veins as she felt herself once more under the protection of Lord Tywin Lannister.
Oh...Oh I suddenly have the need to start writing the Logan AU again. This is??? Sorry, I took so long to get to this, but I am LOVING IT!!!!!!
The fact that you've acknowledged that these two in this inspo board are father and daughter is very brave, and I don't know if I should say it, but, like, it's a valid choice to pick a fatherly dynamic for a storyboard when it comes to baby and Logan? It's very valid.
She's his GODDAUGHTER. She was practically raised by him (in the way the Roys were raised by him and nannies and nannies). Not to neglect Frank's actual fatherhood concerning Baby, but Logan knew her biological dad. He was best friends with her DAD. There would be plenty of situations where Logan's affections towards her (if they don't include anything particularly intimate) could be mistaken for a father being affectionate towards his child.
Where's my small fic of Logan talking to her when she was a baby? I think if I manage to link it here or repost it, we'll create even more contextual disturbance.
Warnings: DUB-CON (bordering Non-Con), violence, power imbalance, escort!reader
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers
summary: Carmine would rather clip your wings so long as it kept you right where he wanted you.
⭑
You paused in your counting, lips parted as you looked between the bills in your hand and making sure you counted that right.
“You–.”
“I gave you what I wanted you to have.”
You looked over your shoulder at those words, blinking at him for a moment.
Carmine was buttoning up his suit jacket, paying you no mind as your brows drew together in a slight frown. You contemplated between voicing your confusion or simply taking the extra money with a smile. After all, Carmine Falcone wasn’t the kind of man you questioned about anything, but your curiosity won you over, and you took the risk.
“...why?” you hesitantly asked him.
Your question came out soft, but you knew he heard you. He didn’t answer you right away, and part of you started to accept that he was going to ignore your question entirely when he proved you wrong.
“You don’t need it?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, and you looked down.
“No, no I do. I just…” you shrugged. “I charge the same every time, and you’ve always paid exactly that so I was confused.”
When you looked up again, his gaze was already on you, and you watched him slide those familiar shades over his eyes.
“That’s all,” you weakly added.
You remained seated at your desk chair as he approached you, his shoes against the floor sounding so loud in your otherwise quiet room. When his fingers gently met your jaw, you relaxed under the familiar ministration. You gave him a small smile when his thumb brushed along your skin.
“Anybody ever told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
You gave a soft closed mouth chuckle at that, nodding.
“Sorry. Thank you,” you finally told him as he stepped away from you.
You were right behind him as he made his way to your door, grabbing his coat from the couch on the way.
“Buy yourself something nice,” he told you as you let him out. “Maybe a bigger bed.”
The hallway in your apartment complex was poorly lit as he crossed the threshold, and you watched him disappear down the stairs before returning inside. When you made your way back into your bedroom, you approached the window, eyes landing on that familiar expensive car when you looked down into the street.
Carmine stepped out of your building only a moment later, and like always, he turned to glance up at you before dipping inside the backseat.
The moment the car disappeared down the street, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. In a matter of seconds, you became all too aware of the soreness in your neck and the dull ache between your legs. With a small sigh, you looked down at the money on your desk, pulling your lip between your teeth at the extra $500 staring back at you.
You knew what Carmine said, but you couldn’t help but to frown at it.
Gotham had no shortage of corrupt and immoral men, and so you saw no reason why you shouldn’t take advantage of that. Most of them only ever seemed to want one thing from girls like you, and you didn’t see the harm in making sure you got something out of it too. It certainly allowed for you to be as selective as you wanted with who you gave your time to, and Carmine Falcone was someone you’d given your time and energy to on numerous occasions.
It was always the same—you met up, he liked what he liked and never went over an hour, and a grand was in your hand before he walked out of the door. Of your small handful of regulars, you were reluctant to admit that Carmine was your favorite. He was simple and consistent, and unlike some people, he understood how this worked.
He was predictable…until now.
He wasn’t what you would call a soft man—although sometimes he seemed uncharacteristically soft with you—and he certainly didn’t just do things out of the kindness of his heart. There was no wool over your eyes about the kind of man Carmine was…and yet…he’d given you an extra five-hundred dollars tonight for what? Because he felt like it? Because you, as he so politely reminded you, needed it? It was very strange, and it unfortunately plagued your thoughts well into the night, robbing you of much needed sleep.
“That happened to me once,” one of your friends told you a few days later. “He was a real decent guy, you know?”
She tapped her coffee mug in her hand.
“Simple and easy and not bad on the eyes either, but then one day he starts paying me way above my rate, and then he starts buying me all these gifts. I’m talking handbags and shoes and jewelry—the real stuff.”
A frown passed over her features then.
“The penny finally dropped, of course. He wanted to take me out on a real date and was talking about pursuing a real relationship with me,” she sighed. “He wanted me to give it all up, and he’d been trying to butter me up to the idea, and I told him ‘look this is how much I make a week and if you can’t maintain what I’m used to then I’m just getting screwed over here by someone who might dump in a month’.”
She suddenly chuckled to herself.
“You should’ve seen how mad he got,” she shrugged. “Naturally, that was the end of that, and I imagine he found some other girl to sweet talk into becoming his kept girlfriend.”
You mulled over her words before eventually shaking your head.
“No, he… I promise you, that is the last thing this guy wants.”
She tilted her head at you.
“Trust me, if you even knew who I was talking about,” you trailed off with a genuine chuckle. “This man likes his image, and sure, he may pay us and buy us drinks when the occasion calls for it, but he’s not trying to butter me up so he can parade me on his arm.”
“Well, how do you know?”
She continued before you could argue that.
“You are a bit of a sweetheart,” she gently teased, poking your arm. “I think you could melt anyone’s cold heart.”
You knew that she wasn’t completely joking, and that only made you roll your eyes.
The idea of Carmine Falcone ever pursuing an actual relationship with you was laughable for so many reasons, but namely because of who he was. He practically ran Gotham, and you sometimes wondered why he didn’t just go ahead and become Mayor. It’s not like it would be the first time a corrupt politician was in charge, and you were sure he could ensure he’d win with no problem.
You’d even brought it up to him once while he’d been getting undressed.
“You just seem like a guy who likes being in charge,” you’d said, cheek resting on your arms as you watched him. “Surely being Mayor is way better than running some businesses.”
You’d watched him unbutton the cuffs of his shirt, immediately pushing yourself to your knees as he approached you.
“Being the Mayor isn’t as powerful as you think, sweetheart,” he’d told you in that low baritone of his.
“Oh?” you’d cheekily wondered as you undid his tie, sliding it from around his neck. “You know something I don’t?”
He hadn’t responded, only throwing you a crooked smile, and moments later the conversation was forgotten entirely.
Your rapport and relationship with the man was nice enough, but truthfully, everything could be nice enough when money was involved. Fact of the matter was that he was a kingpin from a revered family, and you simply couldn’t fathom that your friend’s situation was currently yours. Carmine Falcone paid you chump change to have sex with him and let him choke you, and when it was over, he got to pretend you didn’t even exist. What more could the man possibly want from you?
Your nails dug into the hand around your throat, a choked gasp escaping your lips as your stomach harshly pressed against the pool table from the force of his thrusts. The billiard balls rolled around on the surface of the table, and your free hand was pressed against the material to steady yourself. Every time your eyes started to close, it was like he could sense it, and he’d hit you with a particularly hard thrust.
When Carmine wanted to have you brought to the Shoreline Lofts, you had to admit that your curiosity made you excited. You’d never been to the loft before, and you’d always been curious about it every time you found yourself at the Iceberg Lounge. While you prepared yourself for what was undoubtedly going to take place the moment you arrived, you hadn’t expected it the very moment you stepped out of the elevator.
With no time to even take it all in, you’d found yourself manhandled and bent over the pool table within a minute.
It was reminiscent of the few times Carmine stepped into your apartment without a word, hands on your arms to guide you exactly where he wanted you. Just like those times, not a single word left his lips, and his tight grip on your throat told you that this was purely about frustration. He didn’t make a habit of talking about work with you, not a fan of pillow talk, but the few times it came up in conversation, you surmised that it was a lot more than just a king sitting on his throne and telling people what to do.
You always knew when someone fucked up because your body bore the brunt of it.
When he came, it was with a grunt, and spots danced in your vision from how hard he was choking you. Your nails scraped against the felt of the pool table, and when he let you go, your knees buckled. You were miraculously able to hold yourself up while he got presentable, and before you could pull your dress back down with your trembling hands, Carmine beat you to it. When you started to help him, he stopped you by grabbing your hand and putting a thick roll of money in it, and you eyed it.
Even without counting it, you could tell that it was too much…again.
You were fighting to catch your breath, trying to hurry up and do so and question him about this again because you really didn’t know how to feel about this becoming a habit. However, you didn’t get the chance to, Carmine putting his phone to his ear as he told Kenzie to escort you back downstairs.
“My driver will take you home,” he told you as you straightened, struggling to do so as he ended the call. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
You frowned at him at that, and once again, your confusion almost prompted you to question him for a second time when the sound of the elevator reached your ears. Choosing to just coast along on the current that was Carmine Falcone, you made your way to the familiar police officer as he escorted you into the lift. You tucked the money into your purse as you mulled over his words, wondering if you understood him correctly and that meant he’d be riding home with you.
No one in the club paid you any mind with the exception of a familiar face or two that paid you for your time in the same manner that Carmine did. As you followed Kenzie out, you were even tempted to charm your way into getting the other man to reveal a thing or two about his boss that would explain his strange behavior lately, but Kenzie was nothing if not professional around you.
When you slid into the backseat of Carmine’s car, the driver didn’t take off, confirming your earlier suspicions. It only added to your confusion, and you found yourself unable to relax during a time where you’d be nothing but relaxed. Your conversation with your friend came to mind, and you bit your lip. You weren’t about to jump to any conclusions, but one thing was certain.
Your once predictable client was becoming quite the opposite.
You were unsurprised when the dark-haired man slid into the backseat next to you about fifteen minutes later, his driver pulling off and taking a familiar route almost immediately. It felt strange to be sitting beside him in the backseat of his car. Either he was showing up at your door or he was sending his driver to take you to him, the same driver taking you home once you were done. You were already paid for your time and it didn’t exactly include the ride home, so you didn’t know if you should attempt small talk or ignore the thought of keeping up pretenses altogether.
You were almost to your complex when he finally spoke after a silent ride.
“I want to discuss something with you.”
You finally looked at him just as the car slowed to a stop, and you gave him your full attention, both nervous and wary of what he was about to say.
“When you count that money tonight, you’ll see that it’s a lot more than an extra half a grand tacked onto it…”
You took a deep breath at having that confirmed too, giving him a soft ‘okay’.
“...but I’m sure you already guessed that. You’re a smart girl,” he said to you, finally looking at you. “...and I have no doubt you’ve thought about why.”
You only nodded, feeling wholly in the dark about where this conversation was going.
“My businesses are steadily growing, and with more demand comes more hands to hire to meet those demands…”
“Right.”
“That means more money, yes, but that also comes with more screw ups from new people and more stress from the screw ups…and I’ve been finding myself a lot more stressed these days,” he continued.
You thought to yourself that this was the most he ever talked about his line of work, but you didn’t have the proper chance to linger on that because he was revealing the point of this conversation.
“I want you to free up your time—all of it. I’ll pay whatever I need to.”
It took a few moments for his words—and the meaning behind them—to process, but once they did, you blinked. Then you blinked again, lips parting before you mentally told yourself to close them. Carmine didn’t look away from you the entire time, feeling the weight of that intense gaze even from behind his shades. Telling yourself that your silence was bordering on rude, you cleared your throat.
“Can I think about it?”
It was obvious he hadn’t been expecting that response, even if he didn’t show it, but his silence told you enough. He took a deep breath, and you knew it wasn’t because he actually needed it, but because he was thinking about what to say to you and how to say it. It was interesting to think that because Carmine had been seeing you for a few years now, you knew more about him than probably anyone else.
People tended to reveal a lot about themselves in between the sheets, whether they intended to or not.
“What’s there to think about?” he asked you, voice lowering in the dark car.
Only a lamp on the street lit the side of his face.
“It sounds all good and dandy, Carmine, but what happens when business starts running smoothly again and you don’t need me for stress management anymore and I’ve cut off all my other regulars?”
You licked your lips under his unwavering gaze.
“It just doesn’t seem smart.”
“Have I ever not taken care of you?” he asked you, and you almost wanted to laugh.
“I provide a service, and you pay my rates. Outside of these last couple of meetups, I wouldn’t really call that ‘taking care’ of me,” you hesitantly answered.
Only silence followed your response, and you wondered if you’d crossed the line—if you’d offended Carmine Falcone.
The longer the silence stretched, the more nervous and unsure you became, but you didn’t dare look away from him. When he lifted his hand, you actually flinched, and you didn’t know if it was a trick of the light, but you swore that the corner of his mouth curved. You only relaxed some when his thumb met your chin, his index finger gently grazing underneath.
“Alright,” he finally relented, to your surprise. “Think about it…but don’t think about it too long, okay?”
Your brows drew together at that, getting the feeling that he only expected one answer when it was all said and done, and you had a feeling it wasn’t ‘no’.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m just not feeling well,” you said over the phone. “I should be available next week.”
The man on the other side sighed, his familiar voice wishing you a speedy recovery albeit with an exasperated mumble. When he hung up the phone, it was your turn to sigh, closing your eyes in frustration. Even the simple act of sighing made you wince, and you mentally cursed Carmine Falcone to whatever hell birthed him. Slamming your work phone down onto your nightstand with a bitter satisfaction, you made your way to your kitchen to make some tea.
When you told Carmine you’d think about his offer and when he told you not to think for too long, you knew then that he eventually expected an enthusiastic ‘yes’. After all, in his eyes not only was it an offer you’d be silly to pass up, but why would you ever say no to him? What you hadn’t expected, however, was for the rich man to essentially punish you for your hesitation.
You reached up to graze your cheek, wincing at the skin to skin contact.
Carmine had met up with you days ago, and you were still sporting the evidence of it. He claimed that the stress of things at work got the best of him, but you knew better than that, and you didn’t doubt that he knew you knew. The man liked to be a little rough in bed—wearing a few bruises along your neck in the past—and you got paid to fulfill a service, not judge, but you knew that this was different.
Not once had the other man ever slapped you, bit you hard enough to draw blood, and choked you so hard that you actually passed out. When you came to, you’d been all alone with the sheet covering your frame and a thicker stack of cash on your desk. For a brief moment after coming to, you’d even forgotten what had happened. The bruises in the mirror afterwards were nothing in comparison to how they’d darkened over the course of a day or two.
You knew that Carmine was vicious at times, but you suppose you’d never given him a reason to be so towards you.
When the number of the man in question flashed across your phone hours later, your heart actually skipped a beat. You contemplated ignoring it, but there was no doubt that would bring about a whole new slew of problems if he thought you were ignoring him. Blinking back angry and frustrated tears, you answered on the fourth ring.
“What?”
You didn’t even try to hide your annoyance.
“Is that any way to greet me?”
You sighed, and he seemingly let it slide, continuing before you could respond.
“I’ll be coming by tonight. I should be there in no more than an–.”
“I can’t tonight,” you cut him off, tapping your fingers against your thigh. “I’m not feeling well.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Did you come down with something?”
Feeling like you’d be caught in a lie, you sighed.
“No, but–.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
The line went dead before you could even process that, and the breath you let out was full of frustration. The thought of going through tonight what you went through the other night made a ball of dread form deep in your gut, and you wondered what would happen should you choose to just…not answer your door. If anyone in this city could scare you though, it was Carmine Falcone, so when that knock came exactly one hour later, you were slow to answer it.
…but you answered it nonetheless.
You gazed at him through the cracked door, one hand on the wall as he stood in the hallway in all of his glory.
“Carmine, I told you that I don’t feel good,” you whispered.
He merely hummed at you, the facial hair above his lip twitching.
“You don’t look sick to me…”
You rubbed your forehead in frustration.
“That doesn’t matter…”
Your words died in the air as he moved towards you anyway, pushing the door back and forcing his way by you with ease.
“Carmine…!”
You quickly shut the door behind you, hurrying towards him.
“I told you that I can’t tonight–.”
“Is this about this?” he evenly asked you, gesturing to your appearance. “You’re calling out sick because I got a little rough with you?”
“Bullshit!”
It came out before you could stop yourself, and you regretted it almost as soon as you said it but before you could let that fear linger, tears kissed your eyes against your will as he callously mentioned your last meeting. You attempted to turn away when he reached for your face, pushing at his hand and hating yourself for crying in front of him.
“What is this?” he harshly asked you. “What are you crying for?”
When you finally shoved his hands away, you turned your back on him, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“Got a little rough with me?” you quietly repeated, looking over your shoulder at him. “Look at my face, Carmine!”
You gestured wildly to your throat.
“Look at my neck…”
You collapsed onto the couch, hands in your lap as you looked up at him.
“Why did you do that to me?” you asked him, voice cracking. “...because you were mad at me? Because I told you something other than yes?”
You really hated that you were crying in front of him, but while you’d had your fair share of bad experiences with men in this line of work, the other night with the man in front of you felt so different. You didn’t know if it was because you and Carmine had known each other for years and a level of trust had been built between you—because you both needed to trust each other on some level for this to work after all—or because he’d gone out of his way to intentionally hurt and demean you for daring to tell him anything other than what he wanted to hear.
Maybe it was a mix of both.
“I told you I’d think about it,” you whispered.
“There isn’t much to think about unless you plan on turning me down.”
You closed your eyes at that, wiping your face with a sniffle.
“Carmine, it’s not just about bills, you know. I have a future to plan and think about and I cannot cut off every other man I regularly see just to put all of my eggs in one precarious basket,” you tearfully spat at him.
“I told you that I would pay whatever you need me to,” he eventually said, slowly moving to sit in the loveseat across from you. “Surely you don’t think I’d have any problem taking care of you and giving you more than enough to plan whatever future you’re imagining.”
You briefly closed your eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Carmine, you scare the hell out of me. God forbid I piss you off again–what are you going to do, break my jaw next time?” you quietly wondered. “I had to turn down two of my regulars this week because of you.”
You watched him watch you as he leaned back into the chair, an elbow on the armrest.
“Do you think that’s something I’d be upset to hear?”
You blinked at him with a frown before briefly glancing away, struggling to swallow.
“Is this really about work and the stress it’s causing you?” you finally asked, voice hushed.
Carmine held your gaze.
“I would be a liar if I said that the thought of you only taking my money doesn’t upset me, at all.”
You slowly nodded at that, wanting to let out a humorless laugh.
“...and if I said no?”
There were a few moments of silence before his shoulders rose and fell.
“Well…we’d just cross that bridge when we got there.”
You didn’t like his tone at that, and you shuddered as you brought your legs up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around your knees.
“I could just leave, you know. The world doesn’t start and end with Gotham,” you lightly threatened. “...and there will always be someone willing to pay to spend the night with a pretty woman.”
“...and what makes you so sure I’d allow that to happen?”
Your face crumbled again at that, and you threw your head back.
“Carmine… There are plenty of girls who work at your club who also do what I do,” you said to him, frustration coloring your tone. “Plenty who would be ecstatic to–.”
“I don’t know those girls like I know you.”
His response was simple—and understandable—enough.
When you didn’t have a response for that, he sighed, and you watched him stand with wide and fearful eyes.
“Well…so long as you’re still mulling it over…”
You jerked your hand back when he reached for you.
“We might as well do what I came here to do.”
“I told you–Carmine, no…”
You were pressed against the couch as he towered over you, and he paused at that, so still as he stared down at you that it genuinely terrified you.
“No?” he hummed. “I really hope I won’t have to hear that a second time.”
“Carmine, please…”
“Don’t you need the money?” he wondered as he roughly pulled you off of the couch. “After all, you had to turn down two offers this week because of me, right? Hmm?”
You kept digging your feet into the floor while he manhandled you towards your bedroom. His hands were tight on your arm and waist, and you winced at the pressure on parts of you that were already sore.
“Isn’t that what you said? Let me make up for that…”
“Stop! I–.”
You cut yourself off with a gasp when you found yourself shoved onto your bed, and your attempt to move back away from him was cut short when he pulled you back to him by your ankle. No matter what you did, he was successful in getting you right where he wanted you, and the thought of enduring another night like the other night had the words tumbling from your lips without hesitation.
“I’ll do it!”
He didn’t hear you at first—or was enjoying scaring you too much—and so you repeated yourself louder, the words coming out more jumbled because of your tears. When he finally paused, you swore that you could feel your heartbeat in your throat, and when his hand loosened around your neck, you let out a choked sigh of relief.
“I’ll do it,” you tearfully told him as he let you sit up. “My time is… It’s all yours, now.”
Carmine didn’t respond right away, but he did rest his hand on your unblemished cheek, brushing his thumb over your skin as he looked over you. He let out a deep hum, taking your chin between his fingers.
“I knew you’d see things my way,” he told you, and you wiped your face. “Besides…”
He pressed his lips to your forehead, hand on your jaw.
“You’re soft,” he murmured against your skin. “Always have been, and it can’t hurt to have me around more.”
His lips moved from your forehead to your cheek and then finally your lips, his other hand resting on your waist. Your heart sped up in your chest, and you made a small noise of protest just before he shushed you.
“I’ll be gentle tonight,” he told you, voice low and rough. “I promise.”
You recognized that you didn’t exactly have a choice, and you blinked back tears as he laid you back down although a few did escape despite your efforts.
Carmine kept his promise, his hands the most gentle they’d ever been while he kept you in his lap, lips brushing over the bruising on your throat. The sensitive parts of your skin were going to hurt regardless, and every time you tensed up at every touch, he shushed you with what you were sure was meant to be a comforting sound.
“You’re alright,” he said to you while he guided you up and down his cock. “Just a little banged up…”
It wasn’t lost on you that had you given a different response tonight, you’d be ‘a little banged up’ even more, and you shuddered when he pulled you closer. Your professional relationship that thrived on mutual benefits had morphed into something a bit more sinister overnight, and you wondered just how truthful Carmine had been when he insinuated that having you all to himself was only a minor perk to his proposition.
As he flipped you over and gently pressed his hips against yours, you wondered if that was the goal all along.
Notes: this follows directly on from part 1, which can be found here! It is merely a little smutty insight into the wedding night of Lyarra and Stannis 👀 I will not be continuing with ‘Relinquish’ after this one, however I am happy to use Lyarra Stark as a stark!OC in other Stannis x stark!oc fics if you so wish.
Content warning: arranged marriage, reference to loss of virginity. Age gap (Lyarra and Robb have both been aged up to around 19), references to sexual harassment.
It was time for the bedding ceremony. It seemed that the prospect of carting the King and Queen to the marriage chamber was the only thing that could liven up the tense wedding feast, where bard and fool had failed.
As she was hoisted to her feet, and then off the ground, Lyarra searched for a familiar face as foreign hands lifted her. It was custom, she knew. Her lady mother had been through the same, and her mother before her, but it was no less unnerving. She saw Robb and his men rise, urged by their mother. Of course she would encourage him, she thought, otherwise it would look like he did not wholly want this alliance. As she was carried through the dreary halls of Dragonstone, she felt a hand squeeze hers- surely that was Robb’s…
***
Alone- save for her dour husband… her king- Lyarra let out a shaking breath. They had exchanged only a handful of words in the few days they had known one another, and now she was to share his bed. As she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. He was very direct, this Stannis Baratheon.
“You are a maiden, I take it?” At her nod and faint blush, he continued. “We must consummate this marriage for all the laws of gods and men to recognise it as legitimate. That is, you and I will-“
“Forgive me, your Grace,” Lyarra said. “But I know what will happen. My lady mother explained it to me. My maids as well. And I have four brothers, and grew up with two of them, as well as my father’s ward, who has had more women than I have had roasted pheasant,”
Stannis gritted his teeth for a moment. It seemed to be a thing he did when he was thinking, Lyarra had noticed, and her husband was always thinking. “And did your lady mother explain precisely what a man and wife do? How their bodies are to… join?”
Lyarra sighed slightly. “My lord need not mince his words,” she said. “I have heard of cocks and cunts and fucking since my brothers sprouted their first wisps of a mustache, no matter how much Father scolded them for speaking such filth in front of my sisters,”
Stannis looked aghast, but Lyarra merely sighed and turned away, beginning to unpin her northern bridal headdress, her dark hair tumbling down in its braid. He approached her slowly, his fingers ghosting the ends of her hair. “I thought you would have your brother and mother’s colouring. All you Stark children seem to be redheaded from what I’ve heard,”
Lyarra smiled softly. “My sister Sansa has auburn hair like my mother,” she said. “My youngest sister, Arya… we both have Father’s colouring,” she looked down, wringing her hands.
“You’re upset,” said Stannis. It was not a question; he made statements of fact, she had noticed. She nodded.
“I miss them terribly,” she said softly. “I miss them all, but I fear for the girls, trapped in the capital…”
“I would have thought your father would take you south too,” Stannis said, his eyebrows raising.
“He did,” Lyarra said, looking up at her husband. He had blue eyes like Robert and Renly, she saw, but in the candlelight of the bridal chamber they were dark like stormtossed seas. “But he sent me home. Someone needed to help mother with little Rickon, and Bran… and…” she looked away. “Father thought it would be best. He said I looked too similar to my aunt Lyanna, and he would not have my honour put at risk,”
Stannis stiffened, his jaw tightening. Although she had not said it, he could picture his drunken brother leering at her, at his wife. She may be a woman grown, he thought, but she was still a green, summer girl; vulnerable, grieving and scared. “Look at me,” he said, his fingertips grazing her chin, tilting her face up to his. Despite the boldness of her repeating the vulgar words she had learned from her brothers and their friends, there was a seemingly permanent tinge of the Stark melancholy on her long, regal face. “You will not come to harm here. Not with me, nor any of my men. You are their queen now,”
“Queen,” she murmured. In just a few short months, she had been a Lady, then a Princess, and now… a Queen. She fiddled with the fur trim of her sleeves, glancing over at the bed. The covers had been turned down, the curtains tied to the posts, and someone had scattered petals over the white sheets. She knew the washerwomen would inspect them on the morrow, and gossip would spread once the blood of her maidenhead was smeared on the linen. “I will do my duty, always,” she promised. “I will give you sons, perhaps a few more daughters too,” her fingers trailed over the folded coverlet. “My brother did his duty as King on the battlefield. Your Grace will do the same, until you must do your duty sitting the Iron Throne. And I will do a Queen’s duty here in the marriage bed, and eventually in the birthing room. For I suppose that is the Queen’s battlefield.”
Helaena Baratheon was the apple of King Robert’s eye. As his beloved sister, her position at court was favourable- and secure. But when the Queen plots her husband’s death and Lord Stark uncovers the true parentage of Robert’s heirs, the realm is thrust into war- and Helaena’s loyalty is put to the question as her brothers both proclaim themselves as the True King. She must navigate the den of lions she has been stranded in, when all she wants is to escape to the freedom of the Storm Lands.
A Companion (Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader) Chapter 3
Lady Whitehill and Otto Hightower's wedding is upon them, but first, she must meet her new stepchildren.
Series Masterlist Here
Pairing: Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader (No use of Y/N)
Warnings: discussion of spousal death
Author's note: It's been 10 months but don't worry, we're still gonna fuck that old man.
Chapter 3: A Wedding
King’s Landing was far more pleasant for the woman betrothed to the Hand of the King than it was for a pitiable widowed girl from the Neck, you quickly realized.
The ladies from great houses stopped looking at you as if you were a toad in a fine gown that had snuck into the capital. Now, they approached you with broad smiles, attempting to gain your good favor so they could ply you to sway your future husband in favor of their houses and husbands. Still, it was nice to be greeted as an equal, and without that look of pity you had become so accustomed to.
You were moved out of the guest chambers assigned to House Whitehill and into a suite in the Tower of the Hand. Not your future marital chambers, which connected to those of your future husband, but still a much finer place to lay your head until your wedding night.
Best of all, Gryff and Sybelle were gone. Once they learned that Lord Hightower – Otto, as you were now to call him – would not accept a dowry but instead pay an overly generous bride price according to the old customs, they were more than happy to leave the city at his insistent request. The moment the Red Keep’s gates closed behind their wheelhouse, you breathed a little easier for the first time since Locke died.
Yet there was a pang of guilt each time you felt at ease. Since the morning you were told of Locke’s death, you had not thought it possible to again enjoy the sight of a sunrise or laugh at a clever joke. You resigned yourself to being a haunted widow forever. But now, a different future laid ahead of you.
Now, you could enjoy the sunrise from the eastern window in your bedchamber and the sunset from a western-facing bench in the Red Keep’s gardens you claimed as your favorite. You could laugh whenever the urge struck you, and you could smile freely and genuinely at whomever you wished.
Still, there were times when your grief would again overwhelm you. When the air carried the scent of a storm on the horizon, or you caught a glimpse of crimson leaves as you walked past the Godswood. When you heard a Northern accent or spied a large man covered in dark furs. When you woke from a nightmare reaching across the bed, only to find it empty. In those moments, you pulled the curtains on that eastern window tightly shut or abandoned any idea of going down to your bench. You would not laugh whenever someone made a witty remark, and you would not smile for hours on end.
But you were never scolded for it. No one would dare, given your new station. And when you were with Otto, he would fall into companionable silence, or gently coax those laughs and smiles from you by telling you tales of his late wife or asking you about Locke. He, more than anyone else, knew what you felt, having endured the same torment, and knew just how to soothe you.
You always did the same for him when he fell into melancholy.
Thus, your nerves slowly faded away, until the red walls of your new residence began to feel like yours – to feel like home.
That is, until King Viserys and his new wife returned from their brief wedding tour, and Otto decided it was time for you to meet your future stepson, stepdaughter, and none other than the king himself.
-
“She’s younger than me, for the Gods’ sake!” Gwayne had not ceased in his complaining for over an hour now, and Otto’s patience was running thin.
“I am aware,” he grumbled as he continued reviewing the stack of papers on his desk. His work demanded more of his focus than his son, so his verbal replies had become more and more concise.
He set aside a list of his household accounts – neither he nor his betrothed had any desire for a large wedding, so the costs of the ceremony and celebration were more than reasonable – and began to read a missive from the Citadel. Summer would hold, at least through the rest of the year. He would have to ask Beesbury if the crown could afford to expand the grain stores in the capital, in case this long summer was to be succeeded by a long winter. Then there was the added benefit that the visit to the Kingswood Viserys was pressuring Otto and Lady Whitehill to take after the wedding would be pleasant.
“Father!”
Setting the document down, Otto finally looked at his eldest son. The boy’s expression was not hard with anger, as he expected, but twisted in grief and confusion.
“Why are you doing this, Father?” Gwayne’s voice cracked, and for the first time since the horrible day they buried Alerie, there were tears in his eyes. “You always said that Mother was your one great love in life. When she died… There was a time when my siblings and I thought you would follow her to the grave for the enormity of your despair. Yet now, you’re contented with this Lady Whitehill – a widow young enough to be your daughter?
“What is it about her?” Now came the anger. Wild and uncontrolled, his voice souring with venom. Though he was a man grown, Gwayne still felt everything deeply, just like his mother. “What does she possess to make you cast Mother’s memory aside so easily?”
“Sit down, Gwayne,” Otto said softly.
Gwayne did not. He paced aimlessly as he raved. “It isn’t gold. No house from the Neck possesses anything that would be more than a pittance to our coffers. And it’s not influence. Her husband’s house has none, and none had even heard of her father’s until now. It certainly cannot be love, for you could not possibly fall in love within a single day. But more than that, you would never love any woman more than Mother.
“What is it, then? Perhaps she has a sharp intellect that you wanted to exploit, though given that she seems to spend most of her time with birds rather than people, I find that doubtful. She is beautiful, but not so beautiful that she could tempt a man so consumed by grief as you.” He stopped by the window, casting the room into shadow as his eyes sharpened with malice. “Though after two long years, it could be that you simply wanted a willing woman to warm your bed.”
Gwayne ignored his father’s low warning, hardly stopping his ranting long enough to take a breath. “It is an excellent arrangement for her, isn’t it? She need no longer wallow in the swamps or freeze in the North. No, she will now live in the Red Keep itself, with every luxury at her fingertips. All she must do in exchange is satisfy the lustful appetites of an old man. What woman wouldn’t agree?”
Otto stood from his desk, indignation rising in his chest like an encroaching frost. For Lady Whitehill. For Alerie. For himself.
Still, the boy persisted. “Or is it simply pity for the poor girl who has known nothing but strife? Her escape from the swamps was, after all, over in but a year thanks to the untimely death of her rescuer-husband. Then her chance to live in relative comfort was thwarted by his brute of a brother. Though the brute may be wiser than you, Father, if you’ve fallen victim to her wiles when he – ”
“Enough!” Otto slammed his hand on the desk, sending its contents tumbling to the ground in a storm of parchment and ink. He had not been so angry with his eldest since he had toppled a High Septon’s statue in the crypts of the Starry Sept as a boy.“Sit down.”
Gwayne was reluctant but followed his father’s command. He limped slightly as he came to the chair, his knee, wounded over a year ago by the dishonorable hand of Prince Daemon Targaryen, now undoubtedly ached.
They sat in silence for a long while, allowing their anger to cool before either said something that could not be taken back.
“You will never say such things again.” Otto’s voice was tight, but even. “In my presence or otherwise. Is that understood?”
For a moment, Gwayne looked as if he would argue, but instead muttered a half-hearted affirmation as he slumped in his chair and began picking at his nails.
“I love your mother,” Otto declared. “I loved her when she was alive and love her still now she is gone. In a thousand years, when we are both nothing but dust, I will love her. It is as much a part of me as my blood and my bones. My marriage to Lady Whitehill will never change that. If you hear nothing else I say today, hear this and know it is true.”
He waited for Gwayne to acknowledge him with a nod. Whether he truly believed it was uncertain, but Otto dearly hoped it was. It was hard enough living a continent away from Gwayne and his brothers; he could not bear it if they disavowed him. “Had I been given a choice, I would not remarry. But King Viserys commanded that I do, so I must.”
Gwayne grumbled something – his opinion of the king had rapidly declined since he chose Alicent as his bride – but Otto ignored him and pressed on. “I chose Lady Whitehill because she understands the depths of my grief, for she has felt it herself. She has no desire to remarry, either, for she loves her husband as dearly as I love your mother. But they are gone, while we remain, as do our duties. I must marry because the king commanded me to, and she must marry for her own sake. What was done to her in the wake of Lord Locke’s death – ”
“I know,” Gwayne said, flushing and averting his eyes. Good. If he had not had the decency to be ashamed, Otto may have struck him. “Not everything, obviously, but if even half of what I have heard is true…”
Otto’s eyes narrowed as rage once more crept into his veins. “Yet still you cast her as the wicked temptress to my fulsome fool.”
“That was wrong of me. Very wrong of me,” he added at his father’s glare. “I beg your forgiveness, Father.”
“You will earn it by granting Lady Whitehill all the respect and kindness she is owed.”
“Yes, Father.”
As he sat across from his son, Otto felt the last of his ire vanish. His chest ached, as it always did when he thought about Alerie, the loss as sharp as the day she died. “This marriage will not be like what I shared with your mother, Gwayne. It is not a union of love. But it will appease the king and keep her away from Gryff Whitehill. In the end, we will both be made happy. And I…”
There it was, the pain he had not yet spoken aloud. Still, it lingered deep in his chest, in a hollow that had once held Alerie. “I do not wish to be alone for the rest of my life.”
Gwayne looked stricken. “You are not alone, Father. You have us.”
“Yes, and I am grateful for you.” Truly, Otto would not have survived Alerie’s loss without them. It was only his love for and duty to them that forced him to carry on until he felt as himself once more. Changed, but still him. “But you and your brothers must return to Oldtown soon, and Alicent is married. She belongs to her husband now, not me.”
For once in his life, Gwayne looked as if he was genuinely thinking about what Otto had said. Then, with pity and sadness, “Are you truly lonely?”
Otto had not realized it until he first considered marrying Lady Whitehill. Once he imagined having someone to talk to again, to share his frustrations and grievances with, and grant him friendship and counsel, the nights he spent alone seemed unbearable. He’d begun working later in the night just to stave off the hollow feeling.
Otto wanted to marry Lady Whitehill, yes. But more than that, he wanted to be her friend. Her companion, as he once told her. “Yes,” he admitted. “I am.”
“And this girl will make you happy?” Gwayne had stopped gnawing at his hands and looked at Otto as if he were a father, asking his son if he truly loved his bride. The humor of the situation did not escape him, but nor did it seem to matter much.
“Yes, I believe she will.”
“Then I respect that, and from now on, shall treat her as family.”
-
You had not eaten anything the entire day, too nervous at the prospect of not only meeting the royal family, but sitting at their table as if you belonged. Which, you supposed, you would in less than a day. Before the next sunset, you would be the Queen’s Stepmother.
Still, you were more nervous about this dinner than you were for your wedding.
A maid tugged on the laces of your gown once more, squeezing a hungry moan from your empty stomach, and somehow your nerves frayed even further. What if it happened again in front of the royal family? Would they laugh? Would the king decide you were vulgar and therefore unworthy to marry the Hand and send you back to Gryff?
“Perhaps some tea to settle you?” the maid asked, moving to fetch it before you could even agree. It seemed she had anticipated the need, for she had already heated water in the hearth. It was mere moments before you were clutching the warm mug while she finished arranging your hair and placing the fine jewelry Otto had gifted you.
The gown you wore was also from him, commissioned specially for you. It was modestly cut but spectacular nevertheless, thanks to the stunning brocade of dark amethyst and deepest emerald. The colors of Houses Fenn and Hightower brought into perfect harmony.
And an additional secret gift, for purple represented House Whitehill as well.
Otto had promised he would allow you to hold onto your grief – to Locke – and with this, he helped you do so. When he arrived at your door and took your arm to guide you to the dining hall, you thanked him for it with a kiss on his cheek. The coarse hair of his beard tickled your lips, causing you to giggle as you pulled away.
“Locke was always clean-shaven,” you explained when Otto furrowed his brow.
“Would you prefer if I were, as well?”
If you asked him, would he truly shave? Part of you was tempted to ask just to find out. Though it was hard to imagine him without the beard. It quite suited him. “No, my lord. It is simply a… new sensation. I will become accustomed to it.”
He looked at you strangely then, as if there was a secret humor to your words. It faded into a soft smile when you reached the doors to the dining room, and you braced yourself to face the judgment of your betters.
The king caught your eye first, seated at the center of the table. He was not quite the same as when you saw him at the wedding events, flushed and beaming and well into his cups, but he still appeared friendly. He smiled, you thought, but perhaps that was merely a trick of the light from where you stood at the bottom of the steps that led into the room.
But Otto guided you up those steps, and the smile remained. You tried to return it as you curtsied. “My King. Thank you for inviting us to dine with you and your family tonight, and please accept my personal congratulations on your marriage.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Whitehill. I admit I have been quite curious about you – the mysterious woman who so quickly stole Otto’s heart.” He laughed joyously, and you let some of the tension in your chest dissipate. “And the future stepmother to my dear wife!”
You followed his gaze to the young woman sitting beside him. Though the blood red of her gown clashed somewhat with the flaming auburn of her hair, she was beautiful. Only perhaps three years younger than you, too young to be married. But she smiled easily and squeezed her husband’s hand as she stood and rounded the table.
“I am so happy to meet you, lady,” the young queen said, taking your hands in hers. “I regret that we have not had the time to become better acquainted, but I am sure we will make up for it in future. We must become close, yes?” There was something in her voice that quavered, as if she were desperate for you to agree.
Princess Rhaenyra’s scoffing drew your attention away for a moment, but you turned back to Queen Alicent – your future stepdaughter. “I would very much like that, my queen.”
Her cheeks flushed at the title. “Please, if we are to be family, you must simply call me ‘Alicent.’”
“Very well, but you must also call me by my name,” you replied. Stepmother wouldn’t feel right, after all, not when you were of age to be sisters. “Agreed?”
Alicent hesitated in answering, a flicker of deep sadness filled her large brown eyes – not Otto’s eyes, she must look like her mother, then – before she surged forward and wrapped her arms around your shoulders with a surprising strength. “Agreed.”
“Do we get to greet our new mother?” Another voice, deep and lilting, approached. You released Alicent’s embrace and turned to Otto’s eldest son, Gwayne.
He looked much like his father – the same eyes, copper-brown hair, and fine features. Unlike Alicent, he had been at the Red Keep since your betrothal was announced. In the Tower of the Hand, no less. Yet, you had not met him until now.
There was always some excuse. He was occupied in the training yard or out in the Kingswood with his fellow knights. He already had an engagement that evening, when he was to dine with you and Otto, or had retired early, exhausted from his day. Otto delivered each one with a clenched jaw.
Now, you could see hints of that same stubborn temperament in his decidedly subdued way of greeting you. His smile, too perfect not to have been rehearsed, was a clear reflection of Otto. Though his more relaxed posture and air of bold confidence, like Alicent’s coloring, must have come from his mother. Between the two, and the stories Otto told you, you felt able to conjure a clear image of Alerie.
Gwayne took your hand and placed a light, courtly kiss to your knuckles. “Lady, I hope you are well.”
“I am,” you lied. If a maester knew how fast your heart was beating, he would declare your death all but imminent. “It is good to meet you at last, Ser Gwayne.”
“No ‘Ser’ necessary amongst family.” Gwayne smiled, though it could easily be mistaken for a grimace. “I would like to apologize that we have not had the opportunity to meet, but I hope you won’t judge me too harshly for my… unintentional disappearing act.”
As perceptive as his father, then, if he had deduced that you knew what he’d truly been doing. At least he had the decency to make an apology. If he could do that, you could forgive him. “I hope we have the opportunity to see each other more before you depart.”
“I will ensure it,” Otto said from behind you. He had not spoken or intervened, you realized with a wave of gratitude. He was there if you needed him, but otherwise allowed you to take the lead. His betrothed, yes, but not his possession. His equal.
Otto’s younger brothers, Peremore and Triston, gave similar greetings as their brother’s, before you finally took your seats. With a gentle hand on your back, Otto led you to the seat across the table from Alicent, and you exchanged small smiles as you sat. Yes, you were going to like her. In a strange way, she reminded you of Locke’s mother, kind and warm and someone you felt you could trust instinctively.
There was one more person at the table you had not met, who had made no effort to greet you until now.
“Do I not merit an introduction?” Princess Rhaenyra asked from her place at the end of the table.
Your heart sank. You knew she would be here, so how had you somehow forgotten to greet the heir to the Iron Throne?
“Please, forgive me, your grace,” you stammered, tucking your hands beneath the table so she would not see them shake. “I am afraid I was swept up in the excitement of meeting my future stepchildren. It is an honor to meet you, princess.”
Princess Rhaenyra hummed, fiddling with the stem of her goblet, a smirk upon her lips that reminded you far too much of the way the other ladies looked at you when you first arrived. “What good fortune for you to have secured such a powerful and wealthy husband so soon after you finished mourning your first.”
Even the king’s smile faded.
The thinly veiled cruelty of the remark stunned you, especially coming from the princess so often hailed as ‘the Realm’s Delight.’ Perhaps you’d been mistaken, and the sobriquet was an exercise in irony? Any appropriate words evaded you entirely, so you only lowered your head and murmured vague thanks.
“I believe the good fortune belongs to me, Princess,” Otto said as he sat beside you, placing one large hand atop the table in front, obscuring your view of the princess. “To have been the one suitor amongst many to catch her attention.”
The Princess’s smile had faded into a barely concealed scowl, but before she could bite back with that dragon’s tongue of hers, her father raised his glass. “Yes, I do believe I saw Jason Lannister with you and that good brother of yours one night. Trying to lure you into the lion’s den, was he?”
It was not how you would describe the conversation you and Gryff had with the Lannister Lord, if it could be called a conversation at all. But if it spared you from the Princess’ taunting, you weren’t going to argue against it.
-
“I am sorry you had to endure that,” Otto said as he escorted you back to your chambers after the dinner.
Save for a few comments about your hailing from the Neck, veiled under compliments on how surprisingly well you conducted yourself, Princess Rhaenyra had been silent for the remainder of the meal, allowing you time to acquaint yourself with your future stepchildren and the King. Overall, it had been a pleasant meal.
“There is no need to apologize,” you replied. “I felt very welcomed.”
He grunted, and you saw his lip twitch ever so slightly. “By most, but not all.”
“But by those that matter.” In truth, you were quite worried by the Princesses’ low opinion of you. The King, however, seemed delighted with you. You suspected that the king was most important to Otto, not only for the power he wielded, but for what you glimpsed of the relationship between the men during the meal. “He is your friend, isn’t he?” you asked as you came to your door, and Otto let your hand slip from his arm. “The King?”
Otto smiled and nodded approvingly. “He is. My closest friend and my King.”
You laughed, “And now your son-by-law.”
He quirked a bow in mock reproach until he could not contain his amusement. “Yours as well, after tomorrow.”
In an instant, you fell silent. Gods, was this really your life? As a girl, you’d never imagined you would ever even see King’s Landing, let alone live there, within the Red Keep of all places. You would be wife to the second-most powerful man in the realm, and family to the king himself. If Alicent brought forth a son, did that mean the next king would call you ‘grandmother?’
“It is late,” Otto’s gentle voice guided your mind back to reality, to the cool stone hall and oaken door you stood beside, “you should rest.”
“As should you,” you replied, your chiding half-hearted. By now, you were well aware that Otto slept very little. Once he bid you good night, he would likely return to his study rather than his bedchamber. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”
For a moment, you could swear there was worry in his eyes. “But a good day, yes?”
Again, you raised yourself onto the tips of your toes to kiss his bearded cheek. “A very good day.”
He bowed his head as you turned to open your door. Then, just before you could close it, he whispered, “Are you accustomed to my beard yet?”
You flashed him a smile. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
-
On the morning of your wedding, you awoke to the gentle cooing of doves. Ordinarily, the sound would bring a soft smile to your face, reminding you of early mornings spent in the Godswood at Whitehill, or watching the sunset between the trees at Lily Glen.
This morning, however, it had you wondering if you had gone mad, for you could swear that the sound of the birds was coming not from the windows flanking your bed, but from behind the door to your solar. As if the birds were inside your rooms.
You leapt from your bed, throwing your dressing gown on as you ran to investigate. The windows of the Red Keep were like those at Lily Glen, covered only with wood lattice shutters rather than glass, perhaps a dove had somehow managed to make its way through? Or had you accidentally left the shutters open, and now birds were destroying all the lovely, fine furniture of your temporary quarters?
But your fears were unfounded. The windows were all firmly latched, the room and its furniture unscathed and unstained. Still, not everything was as it was when you retired the night before.
A large brass cage sat near the eastern window of your solar, gleaming in the dawn light, and gilding the two perfectly white doves inside it with a golden glow. Otto himself stood next to the cage, holding something out to the birds between the bars of the cage and wincing whenever they pecked at his fingers.
He seemed absorbed enough in his task that he had not noticed you emerge from your bedchamber, so you took the opportunity to observe him, padding carefully around the edge of the room to inspect every angle.
His profile was striking, with his stately nose, stern brow, and strong jaw–or at least, the impression of one which his beard gave. Though his hairline had receded somewhat, he still had plenty of hair, a soft mousy color somewhere between blond and brown, and only hints of grey at his temples. His eyes, you decided, were your favorite. It was hard to put a name to the color, sometimes appearing as a warm blue, sometimes closer to cool amber, but always containing that bright spark of intelligence and cunning.
It should not have been a surprise, then, when he spoke: “How long are you planning to skulk about, my dear?”
The smile it elicited from you was so wide that your cheeks burned. “Until I’ve had my fill of you, my lord.” He smirked, but did not argue as you continued to circle him. He didn’t even watch you, content to let you look as long as you liked.
When you finally stopped in front of him, the birdcage between you, he finally met your eyes and your frown. You tutted, “These aren’t your wedding clothes, are they?”
Otto looked down at his attire – brown linen trousers, a soft white shirt, and a simple green tunic over it, half-buttoned – and then at you with a cynical grimace.
“I know we agreed we did not want an extravagant wedding,” you continued, overemphasizing your dissatisfaction as best you could without laughing, “but still, I expected more than this.”
He blinked slowly and tilted his head as you rounded the cage to stand just before him. “I consider myself very fortunate that my new wife is such an abysmal liar.” You giggled, and he smiled, withdrawing his hand from the cage, revealing a small carrot dotted with peck marks. “I am already bending tradition too far by being here. I did not want to break it entirely by coming to you already dressed.”
“Why have you come?” You plucked the carrot from his hand and began to break and shred it with your nails so it would be small enough for the doves to eat.
“In the Reach, it is tradition to host two grand morning meals before the ceremony, one for the bride and one for the groom, so the guests can present their gifts publicly,” he explained, keeping his gaze locked firmly on the birds. “The final gift at each is from their intended. We are not hosting such meals, but I still wished to give you a gift. And I must admit, I wanted to give it to you personally, to see if you liked it.”
Your heart fluttered, and you took several deep breaths. It was something you would have easily expected Locke to do, as well. “They’re wonderful, Otto. Thank you.”
He accepted the handful of shredded carrot you held out for him and tipped it into the small feeding bowl at the edge of the cage. Immediately, the doves descended upon it, and Otto yanked his hand back. “I expected doves to be gentle,” he admitted, holding out his hand for you to see the dozens of small red marks where the doves had pinched and pecked at it. “I suppose I was wrong.”
“I wager you would be upset as well if the food you were offered were too large for you to eat,” you teased.
Otto smiled at you. “I suspect you’re right.”
After a brief, peaceful moment of watching the doves cleaning their dish of carrots, you looked up at Otto. “I have a gift for you as well. May I give it to you now?”
“Of course you can, my dear.”
You crossed the room, feeling his eyes upon you like a great eagle perched on your shoulder. He had given you such a wonderful gift, one that must have cost him an extraordinary amount. The cage itself must be worth nearly half of your father’s yearly income. And white doves that pristine…
Would Otto think your gift foolish? Just a silly trinket he would cast aside and never think of again? No. He had been so kind to you, never once looked down on you because of your past.
Steeling yourself, you retrieved the plain wooden case from its hiding place on a tall bookshelf. You held it close to your chest as you went back to Otto, who was now picking apart more carrots for the doves. Even after several months as his betrothed, you were too nervous to look at him as he took the box from you and opened it.
“My,” his voice was too even for you to detect either disappointment or joy. “It is lovely, but I admit I do not recognize it.”
“It’s a quill.”
A barked laugh softened his withering look. “Yes, I can see that. What I don’t recognize is the bird from which it came. I’ve never seen a feather of this color before. Is it Essosi?”
Gently, he lifted the quill from its case. The plumage was smooth, save for a small tuft of white at its base, its color ever-shifting from the metallic black of iron to a vibrant purple to a deep, iridescent green. It was not dissimilar to the dress you had worn just the night before, but far simpler. Still, Otto smiled as he examined it, brushing the pad of his thumb against the edge of the feather, feeling its delicate softness.
“It is from a duck that lives in the Neck,” you explained. “They nest upon the crannogs to feed on the scraps from our kitchens, and even follow us if we move. When I was young, my siblings and I sat at the edge of Lily Glen and tossed them bits of meat and bread.”
“These are the colorful birds you mentioned.”
He remembered. It warmed something in you. “One of them, yes. There are others, though. Some red, some blue, or yellow. A few aren’t colorful but have fantastical patterns – stripes and dots and rings and all sorts. But these ducks are my favorite.”
“I can see why. I am surprised this is the first I’m hearing of them. These would fetch quite a price in the markets.” Many a trader who had come to Lily Glen said the same, and all faced your father’s wrath for it.
Not wanting Otto to bring the subject up with your father, you warned him, “We consider them quite special. Almost sacred, to some. My father, like most other lords in the Neck, has banned their hunting. We only collect feathers they have shed.”
“Then it is all the more precious,” Otto said. “Thank you.”
When he smiled indulgently down at you, you felt foolish for thinking he would reject your gift. He was a generous man. A kind man. A good man. The man you were to marry in a few short hours.
For a moment, you could swear that you could see Locke in the corner of your eye, smiling in approval. But when you turned, it was only your new doves, now on their perch and pressed together in peaceful slumber.
-
The air in the Royal Sept felt hot and thin, the bodice of your dress restrictively tight, and the jewels and gold draped over you heavy as lead.
You were not nervous about marrying Otto. No, you were quite happy with that. The agreement you struck was the perfect solution to each of your problems. Having a companion like him would not only make your life easier, but more bearable in the wake of Locke’s death.
What made you so nervous was the people who now sat in the Royal Sept, separated from you only by its thick wooden doors. Though the king had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to a small wedding and celebration, he had insisted on a grand guest list.
In addition to Queen Alicent, Ser Gwayne and his brothers, Lord Hobert Hightower with his wife, King Viserys, and Princess Rhaenyra stood at the front row on the right side of the Sept. The rest of the Hightowers stood behind, mixed with members of House Blackbar, the house of Otto’s mother, and those of House Florent, the house of Otto's first wife.
On the left side – your side – stood only strangers.
Important strangers, yes. Lords Paramount of the realm and their families. Other powerful houses like the Velaryons and Royces. Even a minor prince of Dorne had come. You should be honored to have them standing for you. But still, they were strangers.
Your father was the only member of your family who had come to King’s Landing. He assured you that the others wanted badly to come, but Lily Glen was over a thousand miles away. The journey either way would take at least a month and a half by land and a month by sea. It was far too long to leave the Glen unprotected, and choosing just one or two to accompany him would surely end in grudges held for months, if not years. Besides, travel was expensive, and your father was too proud to accept Otto's offer of funds.
So your father had come alone, accompanied by the two hired swords he could afford, for everyone had agreed that he must be there to present you, just as he had done with Locke.
He wore the same clothes as he had for your first wedding, as well. After all, they were the finest he had – the only clothes he owned fine enough for a wedding within the Red Keep. Again, Otto had offered to pay for something new, but your father refused. Now, because the clothing was made to be suitable for the harsh weather of the North, he was dripping sweat as the two of you stood in the corridor, waiting for the Septon to summon you.
You looked over to him as he pulled out an already-damp cloth to wipe his brow. “I wish you had let Otto buy you something new, Father. You would be much more comfortable.”
“I’m fine, little one,” he insisted. “I’ve lived over sixty years on the crannogs, I know how to handle the heat.”
“On the crannogs, you don’t wear wool.” You had to resist rolling your eyes. Or moving too much at all, for fear that you would crease your gown or dislodge the diadem set into your hair.
A huffed bah was his only response before he dabbed his forehead again. “This Lord Hightower of yours…”
“Ser Otto,” you corrected. “His brother Hobert is Lord Hightower.”
“But I heard that Lannister boy address him as ‘Lord’ something.”
“He is sometimes addressed as ‘Lord Hand,’ but – ”
Your father pointed at you with his free hand, as triumphant as if he’d won a battle. “That was it! But that doesn’t make him a lord?”
“No. I believe it’s just a courtesy.” You had not thought much about it. Why the Hand was Lord Hand, or the commander of the Kingsguard, the Lord Commander, that was just what they were called.
“Well, whatever he is or isn’t,” he turned to you, and you knew what he would ask. He’d done the same thing two years ago, when you stood in the frigid snow outside the sept at Highpoint. “Do you love him?”
With Locke, you had said yes without hesitation. You knew he wanted to hear the same now, but all you could say was, “He makes me happy.”
His grave expression never altered. “Is that enough for you?”
No. The only thing that would ever truly be enough for you was to have Locke back. This arrangement with Otto was… the next best thing, you supposed. To have a lifelong companion who understood you so well, who expected nothing from you but the same understanding.
“It is,” you lied. “It – he – is more than I ever imagined I could have after I lost Locke.”
There was a doubtful gleam in his eyes, but he said no more. Your father simply stepped toward you, cradling your head in his hand while he pressed a kiss to your brow. Your instinct to lean into him was stifled by your worry that he would displace your diadem, so you pulled away as soon as you could.
“Don’t worry, I was careful,” your father laughed.
Then it was time.
Pages opened the doors to the Sept, and the most powerful eyes in Westeros all turned to you. It was only thanks to the steadying presence of your father that you had the strength to take each step forward. Into the Sept. Between the towering statues of the Stranger and the Crone – so much larger and grander than anything at Lily Glen. Past the wealthy and powerful, their faces blending together as if you were racing past them, even as it felt the journey to the other end of the Sept would last a lifetime.
But Otto stood before you, still and serene, smiling softly. In the past weeks, you’d become familiar with that smile, rare as it was. It never appeared while in court or when he spoke as the Hand, only in private moments. When he greeted Alicent at dinner. When the king congratulated you on your betrothal. When Gwayne apologized, however subtly, for avoiding you.
When you asked him to show you the Rookery. When you agreed to marry him. When you gave him his present only that morning, and he listened to your rambling about ducks.
You focused on him, your new friend, your savior, your companion, and felt the tension leave your body, your breath coming easier now with each step. And all those powerful people, kings and princesses and lords alike, faded into nothing behind you.
Your father hesitated at the altar, keeping your arm firmly locked with his. Though he was nearly a foot shorter, he looked down his nose at Otto, appraising him. Otto remained still, his gaze, those owl’s eyes, appraising your father in return.
Neither said anything. Otto inclined his head. Your father released your arm. And that was that.
The world blurred as you turned to face the Septon. For a moment, it was not the Septon at all, but Locke’s uncle Theo, standing not between the grand statues of the Father and Mother, but at the base of the Heart Tree. A shiver passed through you, the phantom cold of that night over two years ago.
No, it was no imagined chill, it was real. While you were caught up in dreams, the ceremony had gone on. Otto now stood behind you, handing the cloak of House Fenn back to your father, then removing his own.
The Hightower cloak was made of silk and velvet in deep, rich greens, with the eponymous tower itself embroidered across it in exquisite detail, including what appeared to be real gold and silver thread, and crowned with flames fashioned from dozens of small emeralds. Despite the fine fabrics and jewels – and the wealth and history they belied – it was near-weightless as Otto draped it across your shoulders.
Locke’s cloak had been heavier, made of thick wool and lined with fur. It was warm and comforting, and you missed it dearly.
What would Gryff and Sybelle do with it? It was not fine enough for Sybelle to claim as her own, for Locke had thought comfort more important than beauty. The Whitehill crest it bore was not even purple, as the dye had been too expensive for your lost husband’s taste. You loved it nonetheless, for it had kept you warm when you were new to the North, and it was Locke’s.
If you asked, Otto would arrange for it to be returned to you, but why should it be? It would never be cold enough in King’s Landing for you to need it, and you knew Locke would frown on it sitting uselessly in a trunk just for you to know it was there. It would be a waste of a perfectly well-made cloak.
His mother should have it, you decided. She became cold so easily, and it was only getting worse as she aged.
Otto’s fingers grazing your collarbone brought you back to the present. The slight rise of his brow let you know that he was most likely aware that your mind had drifted, but it did not seem to bother him as he finished fastening the cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps because his own gaze held a certain wistful haze.
Was he, like you, imagining the last time he’d been wed?
-
Lady Whitehill was smaller than Alerie, Otto noticed as he fastened his cloak, the gilded clasp settling against the hollow of her throat. Or perhaps this cloak had been made larger, though he could not imagine why. All he knew was that it looked precariously big, like it would slip off her if she moved too much. She looked small and delicate. Beautiful, undoubtedly, but…
Alerie had been strong and radiant. The sunlight coming through the grand windows of the Starry Sept had set her auburn hair ablaze. He remembered being unable to look away from it, for which she would go on to tease him for years – that he had not looked into her eyes as they were wed, or at the blush on her cheeks, or even her lips, but at her hair.
What he wouldn’t give to see it again, to run his hand through those curls once more. Just once.
“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”
It hadn’t been forever. It had barely been twenty years, and it wasn’t nearly long enough. If he and Alerie had both lived forever, it still wouldn’t be long enough. And now he was binding himself and his soul to another.
He looked at Lady Whitehill, and the golden glow of the past vanished. She was holding her hand out for him to take, the Septon looking at him expectantly. Scolding himself for allowing his mind to become lost in memory, he extended his hand just below Lady Whitehill’s. She lowered hers onto his.
Her hand, too, was small. It shook slightly. Or was that his? Perhaps both. He had shaken with Alerie, not from nerves, but from the sheer thrill of marrying his true love. Had Lady Whitehill done the same when it was laid atop Locke’s?
The Septon wrapped a velvet ribbon around their hands, sealing them together.
Again, the phantom of his wedding to Alerie appeared, giggling as the Septon pulled their ribbon too tightly. Otto had tried to give her a look of scolding, but it only made her laugh more. They had been so young then, still full of the giddy foolishness of youth.
Alerie’s face faded, Lady Whitehill in her place. She did not glow with joy. No laugh escaped her lips. The faintest flash of light revealed the tears pooling in her eyes, but she did not allow them to spill over. Gods, she was nearly as young as Alerie had been, but there was no youthful levity to her, not after what she had suffered in her short years.
Yet despite her smallness, despite her shaking, despite the grief in her watery eyes, her voice was steady as she spoke alongside Otto:
“I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
They both had lost what was theirs. Both endured the cleaving of the one soul back in two, one living, and one gone. The living was never to be whole again. But between the two of them, with their broken souls held together with velvet ribbon, they could share the burden of that deepest wound.
Together, they could once more find joy. As friends. As husband and wife. As companions.
-
I no longer do taglists. If you'd like to be notified when I post a new fic, please follow @exitpursuedbyavulcan-writes and turn on notifications!
Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON, kidnapping, mentions of murder, drugging, reproductive abuse
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers
summary: A golden cage is still just a cage.
⭑
You felt…ashamed.
It seemed like an odd thing to feel at the moment—surrounded by more men than necessary and being held onto like a wild animal—but it was all you felt. Shame. Shame that it took you so long, shame that you lied to yourself for so long, and shame that you failed to actually make it out.
You swiped your tongue between your lips as you were led back into the Falcone Mansion, the imposing building making your throat tighten as you stared up at it. To think that you’d once viewed it like the answer to all of your problems, and you shuddered to think of how trusting you’d been then. Naive, some would say. Stupid, others might correct.
You found yourself feeling grateful that at the very least, it was the middle of the night and your embarrassing plight wouldn’t bear any witnesses of consequence—only the men that served as extensions of the man himself who could hardly be considered people. It seemed like every light in the house was on, and you were proven right when you were forced past the threshold, blinking at the fast transition, your eyes taking a moment to adjust.
All that could be heard were the footsteps of your captors and yourself.
It unnerved you.
The silence of the rest of the house unnerved you.
His silence unnerved you.
When his office doors—always shut so tight—finally came into your view, only then did the reality of your night and your current predicament seem to settle in. You suddenly felt so cold and so scared and—as a coping mechanism as of late—you rested your hand on your rounded stomach. It didn’t calm you like it did before, but reminding yourself of the baby growing inside of you made you feel less alone.
It reminded you that you weren’t alone.
A solitary knock and someone was opening the doors, guiding you inside for all of three steps before you were let go and abandoned. One minute at least five men were around you and then in the blink of an eye you were left with only one. You flinched when the doors slammed shut behind you, the wood rattling just a bit before all was silent once again.
He wasn’t facing you, and that made you both angry and sad for the same reason; you weren't a threat. Not even a little bit and especially not to the point where he felt like he couldn’t turn his back on you whenever he wanted. It brought angry and hurtful tears to your eyes, and you looked away just as he shifted.
You didn’t need to look at him to know that he was taking a sip of some brown drink he liked to keep on rotation, the occasion always calling for one no matter the mood. Neither of you said anything—he nursing his drink seemingly without a care in the world while there was hardly anything you wanted to say to him. Your gaze found the floor just as he moved again, and this time you knew that he was facing you. His gaze was always so hot and oppressive and to think that you’d once mistaken it for anything less.
He stared at you, and you stared at the floor, refusing to give him what he wanted.
You should’ve known that this silent battle wouldn’t last long, and you could only close your eyes as you heard his footsteps, the echo of them sounding like gunshots in the otherwise empty room. You kept your eyes closed, wishing you were anywhere but here, and the closer he got, the more you had the urge to just…run.
…but it was too late.
His hand was on your chin—so gentle—and your head was being lifted. You stared at the back of your lids as his thumb grazed your skin, and against your will, a few tears slipped out, betraying just how scared you were. Your lips started to temple just as he shushed you, and you felt him lean in.
“Why are you crying?”
The question was simple, and under any other circumstance, it could’ve been misconstrued as caring, but nothing about his tone felt caring. The question came out like a demand, almost rhetorical, like he knew exactly why you were crying and was wondering why you’d put yourself in this predicament to begin with if you were just going to cry about it.
When you didn’t answer him, his grip tightened on your chin.
“Open your eyes and answer me,” he softly told you. “I won’t ask you again.”
Knowing how much he hated to repeat himself, you slowly did as he said.
Your shaky gaze connected with an equally strong one as you stared into the eyes of Carmine Falcone.
You had hoped that you’d never look into those eyes again, certain that if you did, it would be one of the last things you ever did. The stony expression on his face actually softened just a tad as he looked between your eyes, and you felt your heart skip a beat, quickly reminding yourself that this man could kill you and get away with it…as he’d done before.
“Why are you crying?”
The question came out much softer this time, repeating himself despite his proclamation that he wouldn’t, and it reminded you of the times he did a lot of things that he said he wouldn’t for you. It made more tears spill over, and despite how much you wanted to look away from him, you told yourself that was a very risky thing to do, right now.
“Do you think I’m going to hurt you? Is that it?”
You hesitated, and then you nodded, and your husband sighed.
He let your face go, and you reached up to brush your fingers over your jaw just as he straightened. You watched him as he stepped away from you, taking a sip from the glass in his hand as if you two were having a regular conversation on a regular night. He was half turned to you when he looked down into his drink before lifting his gaze to meet yours again.
“...and why do you think that?”
You didn’t answer him right away, and he made a noise in the back of his throat.
“Come on, sweetheart, you’ve got to talk to me.”
“...because that’s what you do,” you finally answered. “You hurt people.”
Another swig of his drink.
“...but you knew that when you married me,” was his response, and you felt your face crumble.
“That was when I thought you hurt bad people.”
There was a beat of silence, and when you slowly lifted your gaze again, he was still staring at you. His expression was unreadable, but he was giving you his full attention as he lifted his hand to take a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact.
“I do,” he finally replied. “...only hurt bad people.”
He was treating you like you were stupid, and you shook your head, gaze tearful.
“Carmine…”
He turned away from you to set his drink on his desk, and you wrapped your arms around yourself as he approached you again. You swallowed when he rested his hands on your shoulders, standing so close and leaning in so much that you couldn’t help but to lean away a bit. The scent of his cologne—something that used to bring you so much comfort—made your stomach turn, and you rested your hand on your stomach again.
“You did a stupid thing tonight, a very dangerous and stupid thing…”
You reached for one of his hands, but he tightened his hold.
“Were you anyone else, were you anything less than what you are, we’d be having an entirely different conversation.”
“Carmine–.”
“You’re pregnant, and the baby and the hormones are messing with your head…”
You shook your head.
“...making you entertain all of these…silly thoughts,” he said, waving his hand around. “You’re not yourself, and that’s why I’m not angry with you.”
“No, do not do this! Do not make it seem like I’m crazy…”
“Anything could have happened to you and the baby, and I know you’d never want that.”
He finally let you go, and his office doors were open once again. You looked over your shoulder for a second before a different set of strong hands were wrapping around your wrists and your arms. You felt Carmine’s fingers on your face, and you turned to him just in time to feel his lips brush over the corner of your mouth.
“Things are going to be a bit different around here until you feel like yourself again.”
“Carmine, please.”
“Were you in your right mind, you’d never try and leave like that…”
The way he said it almost sounded like a threat, like he wanted to believe it because the alternative would produce a very different kind of night for you both.
“You would never abandon Sofia and Alberto like that, not after how much they’ve grown to love you. Never.”
He pulled away slightly, and while the use of his children’s names was meant to inspire some guilt within you, some part of you also knew he wasn’t just talking about them. It went unsaid, but the look in his eyes told you what he really wanted to say in front of all these men.
You would never abandon him like that.
“I don’t like these pills,” you heard yourself say, feeling as if you were on the outside watching yourself reach along the table to place your hand on Carmine’s.
The dark-haired man didn’t acknowledge you right away, but when he did, he sent you a smile that you were sure was meant to be comforting. He shifted his hand, taking yours into his and brushing his thumb over your skin. When he brought it up to his lips, you let out a small hum despite how almost…numb you felt.
“They’re new, and you’re just not used to it. The doctor said they’re perfectly safe and will help you regulate your emotions.”
You blinked at him, noting in the back of your mind that it was just fancy speak for keeping you compliant. You hardly felt anything most of the time these days, floating on a calm air of nothing and lacking so much energy that you were agreeable to pretty much anything. You didn’t think you liked the feeling, recalling that every time you woke up, but the doctor was always there so early, and Carmine was always close by as you were handed the pills, two sets of eyes on you as you reluctantly swallowed them each morning.
All of this was so wrong…but at the moment, you couldn’t find it in you to care.
“Okay,” was your only response, and your husband kissed your hand again.
“You’re still attending Sofia’s recital with me tonight, aren’t you?”
Even if it was something you wanted to forget, it was impossible to. Even now, you could hear the little girl pressing her fingers to the keys so beautifully in another room, and you smiled.
“Of course,” you told him. “She’s been so excited for months, and I know she’d be devastated if I missed it.”
Carmine smiled at you—or what one would consider a smile from him—and it produced an unsettling feeling in your stomach.
“...and to think, you almost did.”
You slowly blinked at him, humming to yourself as he reminded you of that night. You thought about it often, telling yourself that it couldn’t be your only attempt, but then you’d wonder what would happen should you get caught again? You were currently the calmest you’d ever been in your life, not a care in the world, but you were only calm in body. The pills forced a disconnect between your brain and everything else, and while you had no energy other than anything that wasn’t a smile, your mind was still telling you that none of this was right.
“They love you so much, and I can’t even imagine how I would have gone about explaining to them that they lost another mom should anything have happened to you.”
Your husband said it so casually, with just enough concern in his voice to be believable, but something in you wondered if he’d been anticipating something happening to you out there or in here. The story was that your hormones had you all out of whack, but only he and you knew the truth, and sometimes you wondered if Carmine would have just chosen to be done with you if it weren’t for the fact that he’d chased you down to the ends of the earth to have you…and you were currently pregnant with his child.
You recalled the way you’d been dragged out of his office that night and coming face to face with a man you’d never seen before. You were entirely still as you remembered how he and Carmine talked over you and about you as if you weren’t there. Before the pills, it was a syringe that night, and you would never forget the sight of Carmine coming towards you with the ring you’d left behind just as the doctor stuck a needle in your arm.
It was a scene that sometimes haunted you, waking you up in the middle of the night. A light sheen of sweat would be clinging to your skin, and your chest would be heaving. By this time, the pills you’d been forced to take in the morning would have worn off, and you’d just be left with raw emotions. Sometimes you cried silently, sitting back against the headboard as you stared into darkness with wet cheeks, and sometimes your nightmares would wake Carmine before they’d wake you.
“Take another one,” he’d say to you after turning on the light. “The stress isn’t good for the baby.”
You’d look at him like he was the crazy one, unsure if you wanted to laugh at the irony or not. Carmine—your husband—was the source of the stress, and one could argue that would mean he wasn’t good for the baby. Even still, you’d stare down at the pills in his hand, contemplating your chances if you just knocked them out of his hand and made a run for it…but then you’d remember why you ran in the first place. You’d remember that he wasn’t just a man who hurt bad people, but the good ones too. That he hurt those who did nothing at all, nothing to him, and that one of them was very probably the wife who came before you.
With trembling hands, you’d take the pills, and you’d let him guide a glass of water to your lips.
“Good girl,” he’d murmur in your ear and sometimes you’d find yourself laying back down, erratic heartbeat finally slowing.
Other times though, you’d feel Carmine pressing his face into your hair, hand rubbing circles into your back as it took a little longer for you to calm down this time. You’d both feel and hear him deeply inhale, and you knew what was coming, unsurprised when he’d turn your face to meet his in a kiss. You were good and showing, but that never meant anything when he wanted you, and the pills would finally start to calm you a bit just as he laid you down.
He could never stop touching your stomach when he fucked you, fingers trailing over your protruding belly as he pushed his cock into you. He did it a lot even when you weren’t pregnant, and there were moments when you thought back on those days and wondered if he’d been imagining the day when you finally were. You used to think that Carmine Falcone chased you down because he wanted to be with you, but now you knew that it was because he wanted to have you.
It was wholly different.
“They know you’re mine. They’ll do as I say,” was something he often said in the beginning whenever you voiced your concerns about the family accepting you.
Those words used to make you giddy, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at that intense gaze just before he’d press his lips to yours. You’d take the words completely different from how he meant them. You’d had no idea then that he genuinely saw you as his. His property, that is. Something that belonged to him to do whatever and treat however he pleased regardless of how you felt about it.
Despite how much he told you that he’d never hurt you, he had to know that he already did.
When the baby was born, Carmine was in the room, and had you been more lucid, you would’ve been bothered by his fingers in your hair and on your face and anywhere near you. Carmine held him first, and when you finally got him into your arms, you didn’t like the way your husband pressed his lips to your forehead, keeping them there and refusing to leave your side. Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been normal, desired even, but you were not under any other circumstances.
Now that you were no longer sustaining a whole other human being in your body, the atmosphere was shifting. You didn’t imagine the uptick in security within and around the mansion nor the way Carmine was almost always just there. The first morning you refused the pils, it had almost turned into a brawl.
“I’m not pregnant anymore–!”
“You’re still dealing with significant hormone and mood changes that can and will affect how you not only interact with yourself but the baby as well,” the doctor had told you, his voice so calm that you wouldn’t even think he was bearing witness to you being held down like some Arkham patient.
You’d looked between him and Carmine with tears in your eyes, realizing that your husband came to the same conclusion you did but only much sooner. With no baby growing inside of you, now, it would be much easier for you to simply walk out of that door and never come back. It would be so much easier to abandon everything, to abandon him.
“Carmine,” you’d cried, fighting against the hands holding you down. “Carmine, please.”
Like that very first night, a needle was preferred over the pills, and you didn’t take your eyes off of Carmine once. He didn’t look the least bit bothered by the sight before him, and any shred of hope you had that some part of him saw you as more than just a prize he’d gotten his hands on was long gone.
The drugs did their job and kept you sedated, and now that you could be given a higher dosage without the worry of hurting the baby, they kept you so sedated that you couldn’t even fight back when Carmine decided it was time to trap you again. You never refused his advances, but it wasn’t like you were exactly in a position to.
You didn’t exactly want his lips on yours, but there wasn’t much you could do to refuse him. When your son was asleep and the pills had long kicked in, Carmine pinned you between his sturdy frame and the plush bed beneath you. You couldn’t tell if he was hungry for you, the desire to see you pregnant and trapped once again, or both. Maybe it was a bit of both.
He had no qualms about spending hours curving his hips into yours and grazing his teeth over your skin. It was reminiscent of how he preferred to spend the early days of your relationship and especially the early days of your marriage. Carmine was insatiable for a lot of things, but above all else, he was insatiable for power.
Once upon a time, you’d thought that was solely reserved for power in Gotham, power in the family. You’d never considered that included power over you too. It made him feel powerful to have you underneath him when you both knew you didn’t want to be. It gave him a different kind of high–one Gotham could never give him–to feel your nails dragging down his back and your legs around his waist as he filled you up in the hopes of conceiving baby number 2.
When you weren’t coming around his cock, you were nursing, and when you weren’t nursing, you were sleeping. In between, you ate, but the cycle repeated, and in those brief moments where you weren’t doped up on pills meant to suppress your every emotion and energy, you were fighting to get your mind right and decipher up from down so that you could escape this prison.
“Don’t I give you everything you could ever want?” he’d quietly asked you one day, knelt before you as you curled yourself into a corner. “Hmm?”
Your husband actually expected an answer, and you couldn’t give him one that he’d like.
“You live in such a nice house,” he gestured around. “...and a million women would kill for that ring on your finger, and you’ve got three children who think the world of you.”
Those dark shades he liked to wear were covering his eyes, and you found that the inability to look him in the eye was more unnerving than that cold stare he liked to fix you with. You sniffed, chest tight as he reached out to brush his fingers down the side of your face.
“You want to leave all this?” he eventually wondered. “You want to leave me?”
Those words had you freezing, and the more you tried to see into his eyes–read his face–it was like the harder it became. You hadn’t missed the way his voice dropped as he asked if you wanted to leave him, and the room was completely silent now as you held in your sobs. It was remarkable how fast you’d gone from miserable to terrified.
You watched the dark-haired man take a deep breath, and you shuddered when he rested his hands on your arms, pulling you with him as he stood to his feet. Your shoulder was pressed against him as he walked, his arm around you, and you felt the vibration fill you as he hummed.
“I’m sure we can work something out, find a way to cheer you up,” he proposed, depositing you on the bed and kneeling before you.
His hands rested on your knees as he looked you over, and you felt a few tears escape as the pills wore off more and more.
“Maybe we can all go on a nice vacation once the baby’s big enough to travel…”
You bit your lip.
“...or is that it? Do you want another baby?”
You stared at each other, and you swallowed down what you wanted to say, completely aware that Carmine had been trying for another for months, now. He gently massaged your knees, slowly exhaling.
“We have to come up with something sweetheart, because I can guarantee you that leaving me won’t make you happy.”
The words themselves weren’t threatening, but the way he said them and the way he stared you down as he said them told you everything you needed to know. More tears spilled over without your consent.
“Do you understand?” he asked after some time.
You closed your eyes and gave him a reluctant nod.
“Tell me what you understand.”
His voice was calmer, now, and you sniffed, taking a deep breath.
“That if I leave you…” you opened your eyes. “I won’t be happy.”
Carmine reached for your face, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth before standing, guiding you to lean your head against his stomach.
“...and you want to be happy, don’t you?”
You closed your eyes again, focusing on the feeling of his fingers tracing circles into your scalp. You gave a shaky nod, faintly recognizing the sound of your son waking up, desperately trying to ignore the way the touch of his father made your skin crawl.
